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FRENCH 
SHORT STORIES 



EDITED FOR SCHOOL USE BY 

HARRY C. SCHWEIKERT, M.A. 

CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL, ST. LOUIS, MO. 



SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 
CHICAGO NEW YORK 






Copyright 1918 
By Scott, Foresman and Company 



AUG 10 bid 
©CL A 503090 



PREFACE 



In late years constantly increasing attention has been 
given to the study of the short story in our schools and 
^"colleges. Numerous texts have been prepared to meet this 
new tendency, but in all of them there has been a prepon- 
derance of English and American stories. The few foreign 
stories included in some of the collections implied a scant 
recognition of the fact that there were excellent stories in 
literatures other than those in the English language. 

The present war has greatly stimulated interest in con- 
tinental literature, especially in that of our Allies. Of all 
these none is richer in its fiction than France. The high 
artistic excellence of the French short story has long been 
recognized and the more important French writers are well 
known everywhere; but up to the present no representative 
collection of French short stories has been made for school 
use. This volume aims to present such a collection. 

The editor wishes to make a general acknowledgment 
of his indebtedness to all previous editors of collections of 
short stories which included the French. He has also re- 
ceived much help and stimulation from the many recent books 
on the art of the short story. Special acknowledgments are 
due to Mr. C. E. Miller and Mr. R. A. Alpiser, both of 
the Mercantile Library of St. Louis, for their many courte- 
sies, and to the editor's friend and colleague, Mr. Louis 
LaCroix. 

Acknowledgments to publishers will be found in connec- 
tion with the stories themselves. 

St. Louis, Mo., April, 1918. H.C.S. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface 3 

Introduction 

I. The Short Story Today 7 

II. The Short Story of Antiquity 12 

III. The Short Story in Modern France 15 

Pronouncing Glossary 18 

Balzac 19 

An Episode of the Reign of Terror 21 

The Atheist's Mass 45 

Colonel Chabert 67 

Merimee 143 

Mateo Falcone 144 

Musset 159 

Croisilles 160 

Maupassant 192 

The Necklace 194 

The Wreck 205 

Fright 219 

Two Friends 227 

The Hand 235 

Daudet 243 

The Last Lesson 247 

The Pope's Mule 251 

The Reverend Father Gaucher s Elixir 262 

Coppee 273 

A Piece of Bread 274 

France 282 

The Juggler of Notre Dame 284 

Bazin 291 

The Birds in the Letter-Box 292 

Claretie 300 

Boum-Boum 301 

Lemaitre 309 

The Siren 310 



INTRODUCTION 



The Short Story Today 

Fiction in its most comprehensive sense is coeval with 
the beginnings of literature, and the short story is as old as 
the art of narration itself. However, it has been left to 
comparatively modern times to give close attention to the 
definition of the literary forms now included in the general 
term prose fiction, until today the terms novel, romance, 
and short story have come to mean something fairly distinc- 
tive. For many centuries looseness in the matter of con- 
struction was characteristic of the long story and the short, 
both in poetry and prose. In the eighteenth and nineteenth 
centuries, when the modern novel began to shape itself, more 
care was bestowed on the question of form, and, as the art 
of fiction progressed, the short story gradually began to 
emerge as a separate variety. But looseness of structure 
was not definitely attacked until about the middle of the last 
century when Poe, by precept and practice, proclaimed the 
short story as something new and distinct in fiction, sub- 
ject to special laws of its own. He published Berenice, his 
first story, in 1835, and in 1842 he wrote his famous review 
of Hawthorne's Twice Told Tales, Both the Tales and the 
critique are landmarks in the development of the short 
story. Poe's influence in this development can hardly be 
over-emphasized. In France his stories had the good for- 
tune to be translated by Baudelaire (1856-1865), and with 
such remarkable fidelity and exquisite style did the French- 
man perform his task that the stories ranked practically as 
original work. Poe became equally popular in other coun- 
tries, especially in England, Germany, and Russia. 

7 



8 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

It is an ancient truism to say that literature is a reflection 
of life, but the idea has special application in a consideration 
of the development of the short story. In the last fifty years 
life has become more complicated, the field of human thought 
and endeavor has widened, action has become more and more 
specialized, education is almost common property, and 
reading a universal habit. These very conditions, however, 
have imposed restrictions on leisure for reading, so that to- 
day a hundred readers find time for a short story to one 
who can devote himself to a long novel. The short story, 
therefore, fills a natural want created in large part by the 
conditions of modern life, and writers have not been slow 
in taking advantage of this demand for brevity. 

A concomitant factor in the popularization of the short 
story is the stupendous growth of the magazine as a medium 
of publication, especially in America. In the earlier maga- 
zine, more particularly in England, short stories were used 
mainly as "fillers," while today the bookstands everywhere 
fairly groan with magazines which loudly proclaim them- 
selves as containing short stories only. Even the more con- 
servative of the older periodicals do not hesitate to call 
special attention to their short stories. Besides, a surpris- 
ingly large number of these stories find their way into book 
form, assuring them a greater degree of permanency. This 
insistent and constantly growing demand has not only stimu- 
lated production; it has also been responsible for greater 
merit in the stories themselves. 

A study of the short story inevitably suggests a contrast 
with the novel. In a general way the material is the same 
for both, as well as the fundamental elements of construction. 
"The subject-matter with which prose fiction deals," says 
Prof. Bliss Perry, "is human life itself; the experience of 
the race, under countless conditions of existence." And again, 
fiction writers "all have something to say about life." That 



INTRODUCTION 9 

surely is broad enough to include both novel and short story. 
Yet there are differences. In general, the novel is more 
expansive in theme and more elastic in treatment; it can, 
and usually does, reproduce a larger phase of life than the 
short story, one involving more characters and greater 
variety of incident, and affording a more extended range 
for the portrayal of human emotion. In the novel there 
is an elaborate plot, frequently supported by one or more 
sub-plots which help to create the complication in which 
much of the interest of the story is embodied. Opportunity 
is given for leisurely narration, often relieved by incidental 
description — only such, however, as will not obscure the 
effect which the writer wishes to create. In order to achieve 
his purpose artistically the novelist arranges the incidents 
and episodes in the lives of his characters in such a way 
as to lead up to the climax which permanently affects the 
destiny of the important characters at least, or involves 
them in a definite catastrophe. 

In some such way the ideals of the novel may be sum- 
marized, and, of course, some of the points just made apply 
to the short story as well, especially the older variety. But 
it has become the fashion to discriminate between the novel 
and the short story and much has been written in this 
connection. Rules have been formulated as to what is and 
what is not a short story, with considerable emphasis on 
the idea that a short story is more than a story that simply 
happens to be brief. In order to bring out these distinguishing 
features of the short story as it is now concerned it may not 
be irrelevant to give a brief synopsis of the fundamental 
elements of prose fiction. 

In every story, long or short, there are characters, setting, 
and plot. In other words, there are certain persons or 
characters who do something amid certain surroundings. The 
characters are described by direct statement of the author, 



10 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

or by what they do and say as the story progresses. The 
setting of a story includes its location in time and place. 
The plot gives life to the story; it implies action, the 
incidents and episodes in which the characters are involved 
being artistically arranged to lead to some certain end. The 
novel employs these elements with greater elaboration, as 
suggested in a previous paragraph, while the short story 
of necessity is of simple form. 

Many attempts have been made in recent years to give 
more precise and exact definition to the term short story as 
distinguished from the mere tale or sketch, but it does not 
seem essential to the present purpose to contribute to this 
discussion, for in this book all three forms are represented. 
The one trait common to all is singleness of effect, secured 
by repression in the use of material and by concentrating 
the interest upon some one character or some one incident; 
by compactness of construction and swiftness of movement. 
The contrast with the looser and more leisurely manner of 
the novel is obvious. In the ideal short story there is little 
room for description. Action is the word. The rest is 
usually quite secondary, although in the short story there 
has always been a marked fondness for local color effects 
because of the air of realism which they impart. 

The field of the short story is almost unlimited, both in 
range of subject-matter and method of treatment. The most 
successful stories of all times have always been those which 
appealed to the deep-seated emotions common to humanity, 
such as love, hate, jealousy, revenge, friendship, courage, 
devotion, self-sacrifice ; or again, the appeal may lie in the 
type of character, the soldier, the beggar, the criminal, the 
athlete; and sometimes the appeal is in the effect only, for 
example, humor, pathos, or horror. It is not unusual for 
writers to combine two or more of these motives. In the 
present volume nearly all of the elements just mentioned 



INTRODUCTION H 

may easily be detected, and readers will find it a pleasant 
exercise to note, after they have read a story, what effect 
has been produced upon them and how the author managed 
his material in order to secure it. 

At the present moment no form of writing is more in 
vogue than the short story. There is more and more of a 
tendency to place the emphasis on the short. Several 
reasons for this have already been indicated, but at least 
one other may be mentioned, imitation. Two of the foremost 
modern writers of the short story practiced the very short 
form — Maupassant and O Henry — and they did it sur- 
passingly well. They followed Poe in pointing the way 
for the type of story that limited itself to the sharply-drawn 
photographic detail, and so successful were they that all 
the world seems inclined to follow them. Narrative art 
with them meant the focussing of the attention on some 
one character or some one trait or some one incident, by 
means of which they created the single impression sought. 

The modern devotion to hurry and speed has helped to 
popularize the very short form, and the- newspapers and 
magazines are doing their best to foster this type. They 
prefer to print half a dozen stories by different authors 
rather than one or two longer ones which might actually 
have a higher claim to literary distinction. It is natural 
that an author can build better if he is not cramped for 
elbow-room, and this is exemplified by some of the older 
writers born before brevity became an altar on which all 
else must be sacrificed. Among them are such writers as 
Balzac, Turgenev, and Tolstoi. Readers who have not 
already done so should not fail to read Turgenev's A 'Lear 
of the Steppes, as well as the longer of the short stories by 
Balzac. Among the few more recent writers who wrote as 
they pleased rather than fit their stories into the space 
allotted by the magazines was Henry James. Some day, 



12 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

when it is no longer a popular literary sport to cast slurs 
upon that great literary figure, the reading public will wake 
up to the fact that it has been most unjustly neglecting one 
of the foremost writers of the short story in English. 

II 

The Short Story of Antiquity 

Of all the arts that of story-telling is surely the oldest. 
Long before the dawn of history primitive man must have 
found delight in talking about his success in the hunt or his 
prowess in the fight. His imagination soon taught him when 
to drop superfluous facts and when to add details in order to 
make a good story. These early tales of adventure, doubt- 
less; were enriched by that element of wonder instilled in 
the savage breast by the mysteries of a world which he could 
not explain but of which he nevertheless felt himself a part. 
In the course of time narratives of personal adventure tended 
to be combined with attempts to explain the powerful forces 
of nature, thereby helping to create the myth, the hero-tale, 
the legend, and the folk tale. These stories no doubt were 
crude and formless enough at first, but eventually were given 
some sort of rude shape by the professional story-teller who 
seems to have been common to all peoples and all literatures 
at some early stage in their development. Stories were told, 
re-told, added to, remolded, handed down orally from one 
generation to another, until at last the art of writing made it 
possible to preserve them with a certain degree of per- 
manency. In some such way as this we may imagine the 
art of story-telling in its beginnings. 

Perhaps the oldest known short stories are those which 
have been preserved on the papyri of ancient Egypt, some of 
which have lately become accessible to English readers. 
One of these, The Shipwrecked Sailor, printed in Canby's 
Booh of the Short Story, dates back to the twenty-fifth 



INTRODUCTION 13 

century before our era, and may be the oldest short story in 
existence. The stories contained in the Arabian Nights 
are also very old, although their present form is compara- 
tively modern. In ancient Hebrew Literature a number of 
short stories may be found, including such fine examples as 
the Book of Ruth, and the Prodigal Son. 

In Greek and Roman literature there is very little that 
can properly be called prose fiction. In the history of 
Herodotus a number of anecdotes and stories are introduced, 
one of which at least might be called a short story. This is 
the story of Polycrates and his ring, in the third book. The 
existing synopses of the so-called lost Tales of Miletus 
indicate that these were stories written primarily to enter- 
tain, and the fact that they seem to have been popular sug- 
gests that there may have been other collections of which no 
trace exists. Of extant Greek stories the Fables of Aesop 
(sixth century, b. c.) are popular to this day. 

In Roman literature some of the best short stories are 
found among the poets, notably Ovid, who, in his Meta- 
morphoses, re-tells in sprightly fashion many of the old 
stories, the myths and legends, of both Greece and Rome, 
as well as stories whose origin was less remote. The more 
important Roman prose writers rarely introduced anything 
resembling the short story. Of the minor writers at least 
three may be mentioned, all of them belonging to the first 
century of our era. The first is Petronius Arbiter, whose 
Trimalchio's Dinner is readily accessible in Professor Peck's 
admirable translation. In the Nodes Atticae of Aulus 
Gellius is found that charming story, Androcles and the 
Lion. Probably the best short story in Latin is Cupid and 
Psyche, in the Metamorphoses of Apuleius. 

With the barbarian invasions of the fifth century and 
the consequent disintegration of the Roman Empire classical 
literature came to an end. For almost a thousand years the 



14 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

civilization of Europe was adjusting and readjusting itself 
to different modes and ideals of life, and it was not until about 
the end of the thirteenth century that forms of the short story 
began once more to receive special attention. As far as the 
history of the short story is concerned the most significant 
work of the new era was the Gesta Romanorum (Deeds of 
the Romans), a collection of tales of all sorts from every 
imaginable source, written in Latin. This work became ex- 
ceedingly popular and was used as a source-book by the 
story-writers of the Middle Age and after. It also served 
to make more widespread the idea of gathering stories into 
collections. Often an added interest was given to these col- 
lections by linking the stories into a more or less connected 
series. This was especially true in Italy, the most famous 
example being the Decameron of Boccaccio (1313-1375). 
The scheme was also frequently employed in France, while 
in England it was adopted by Chaucer in The Canterbury 
Tales, and in America Longfellow used it in his Tales of a 
Wayside Inn. 

One of the most fascinating chapters in the history of 
story-telling is that which pertains to the literature of the 
Age of Romance. This connects itself particularly with 
France. There, as elsewhere, the earliest writing was in 
poetic form. In the eleventh and twelfth centuries the 
troubadours went from place to place chanting their chan- 
sons de gestes, or songs of great deeds. Side by side with 
these were the fabliaux and the contes devots, both highly 
important in the rise and development of the short story. 
In the fabliaux of the Middle Ages the story is commonly 
of a humorous nature, depending upon a trick for its point, 
Their greatest significance lies in their realistic portrayal 
of the life of that day. The contes devots, as the name 
indicates, were of a religious nature, obviously didactic, and 
closely related to the allegories so popular at that time. 



INTRODUCTION 15 

But the importance of all these pales when placed in 
juxtaposition with the metrical romance proper. The 
chansons de gestes made at least some pretense to actual 
fact, and that constitutes their chief difference as far as 
the material is concerned. The outstanding special char- 
acteristic of the metrical romance was the element of wonder. 
Absolutely nothing seems to have been barred which might 
help to secure the desired effect, in character, setting, and 
plot. There were stories of grim giants, horrible dragons, 
beautiful enchantresses, imprisoned damsels to be rescued, 
enchanted castles, magicians, magic swords, and marvelous 
deeds involving superhuman strength and endurance. Ana- 
logues to this type of story may be found in nearly every 
great literature, but in the metrical romance there was some- 
thing more. This was the general attitude of chivalry — 
an unselfish devotion to ideals. 

Ill 

The Short Story in Modern France 

Between the fourteenth and the eighteenth centuries 
there was nothing of note in the development of the French 
short story. The French novel had enjoyed its first period 
of popularity in the age of Louis XIV. In the eighteenth 
century it became essentially a reflection of the manners 
of the time, that is to say, highly artificial. During the 
period of the French Revolution and the years immedi- 
ately following much fiction was produced and a new note 
was struck. This new note was Romanticism. It was indi- 
cated not so much in the form and material used as in the 
attitude of the writer, and this attitude was largely the 
result of the influence of Rousseau. Its special feature was 
revolt, a breaking away from tradition and the hard, set 
mannerisms of an earlier day. As representative of this 
changed spirit Chateaubriand became the first important 



16 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

name in modern French fiction. His Atala (1801), based 
upon his experiences with the American Indians, marked the 
turning-point for the new movement. 

The Romantic movement of the latter part of the eighteenth 
and the beginning of the nineteenth centuries was the natural 
outcome of the general social unrest in all the highly civilized 
countries of Europe. Among the French novelists of this 
period who won distinction in the short story are Balzac and 
Merimee. It was Victor Hugo, however, who became the 
great champion of Romanticism, first in poetry and the 
drama, then in fiction. In a literary movement, as in a politi- 
cal, there is a tendency to go to extremes. This is generally 
true of the period under discussion; but the short story, 
which developed rapidly during the years surrounding 1850, 
showed a marked inclination to moderate the eccentricities 
and extravagancies of the Romantic school. The Romantic 
idea was paramount, and, while men like Balzac and Meri- 
mee scoffed at it, they nevertheless used much of its material 
and adopted its methods, especially in their local color 
effects. This effort at local color struck the keynote for a 
new realism quite different from the artificialities thought 
realistic in the preceding century. 

It will be noted then that at the height of the Romantic 
movement there was already a swaying in the opposite 
direction due mainly to the conditions of life after the middle 
of the century. For at least two decades there was compara- 
tive political quiet and a general material prosperity. It 
was also an age of unexampled advance in all the phases of 
human endeavor, more particularly in science, and all this 
tended to produce a satisfaction with life as it was. 

Flaubert and Gautier are the two pioneers of this new 
Realism which, nevertheless, retained many of the earmarks 
of Romanticism. They were both intimately connected with 
the short story, the one chiefly through his disciple, Maupas- 



INTRODUCTION 17 

sant, the other by stories of his own. In this movement also 
there were extremists, especially those who tried to carry 
scientific method over into fiction. This phase of Realism be- 
came known as Naturalism, with Zola its greatest exponent. 

These various tendencies just sketched may be summa- 
rized as follows: The Romanticist tried to see life as he 
would like it to be; the Realist tried to portray life as it 
was; the Naturalist saw life as something to dissect and 
analyze, giving us thereby the psychological novel. 

The introductory sketches to the various authors indicate 
the important landmarks in the development of the French 
short story. In no other literature has the short story at- 
tained such high artistic excellence as it has in * that of 
France. This is due to several reasons. In the first place, 
the French are an art-loving people, with a keen sense for 
the beautiful. Furthermore, the French are conventional 
in their art as well as in their life. Form counts for a great 
deal with them, and that helps to account for the technical 
perfection of their short stories. The French language 
likewise is an important factor in the creation of an un- 
rivaled technique. It lends itself to a precision and con- 
ciseness of statement that is positively unique. In conse- 
quence, the French have always been conspicuous for style, 
and their critics have openly maintained that style is per- 
haps the most essential feature in a work of art. Outside of 
France this view is not always accepted, and one of the 
criticisms made by those who do not share the French point 
of view is that in French stories there is often too much art 
and too little matter. The writers of the short story in 
France have consciously given much attention to the way 
their stories are told, and the selections in this volume will 
enable the reader to judge for himself whether or not the 
contention can be upheld that the French have written the 
best short stories ever produced. 



PRONOUNCING GLOSSARY 



Arnaud, ar-no' 
Balzac, bal-zak', or bal'zak 
Bazin, ba-zan' 
Beluguet, be-lii-ge' 
Bermutier, ber-mii-tya' 
Bianchon, be-an-shon' 
Boucard, boo-car' 
Bourgeat, boo-zha' 
Boutin, boo-tan' 
Broussais, broo-se' 
Brunetiere, brtin-tyar' 
Chabert, cha-bar' 
Chelles, shel 
Claretie, klar-te' 
Coppee, ko-pa' 
Crebillon, kra-be-yon' 
Croisilles, krwa-zeT 
Crottat, kru-ta' 
Cuvier, kii-vya' 
D'Assoucy, da-soo-ci' 
Daudet, do-de' 
Delbecq, del-bek' 
Desplein, de-plan' 
Desroches, da-rush' 
Du Guesclin, dii-ge-klan' 
Faguet, fa-ge' 
Ferraud, f er-ro' 
Flaubert, flo'bar' 
Forestier, fo-res-tya' 
Francois, fran-swa' 
Gaucher, go-she' 
Gautier, go-tya' 



Giuseppa, joo-sep'pa 

Godeau, go-do' 

Godeschal, god'shal 

Langeais, lan-zhe' 

Lemaitre, le-ma'tr' 

Loisel, lwa-zel' 

Marquis de Beauseant, mar- 

ke' de bo-se-an' 
Mateo Falcone, ma-ta'o fal- 

co'ne 
Mathilde, ma'teld 
Maupassant de, mo-pa-san' de 
Merimee, ma're-ma' 
Moliere, mo-lyar' 
Morissot, mo-ris-so' 
Murat, mii-ra' 
Musset, mti-se' 
Quinquet, kan-ke' 
Ramponneau, ran-pon-no' 
Robespierre de, ro'bes-per' de 

or ro'bs-pyar 
Sauvage, so-vagh' 
Simonnin, se-mon-an' 
Talleyrand, tal-e-ran' 
Thibault, ti-bo' 
Tistet Vedene, tis'te ve-den' 
Tolstoi, tol-stoi' 
Turgenev, toor-gen'yef 
Vauquer, vo-ke' 
Vergniaud, varn-yo', or vor- 

gno 



BALZAC 

(1799-1850) 

Honore de Balzac was born at Tours in 1799. He was 
sent to school first at Vendome and completed his education 
at Paris. His parents intended him to be a lawyer, and he 
dutifully followed the course prescribed for entrance to that 
profession. But when he was offered an excellent oppor- 
tunity to practice he refused to consider it, having early in 
life determined to be a writer. Thoroughly disgusted, his 
father withdrew all support, and Balzac entered upon a 
career of struggle and poverty while endeavoring to make 
his way as a novelist. His rugged perseverance enabled 
him to leave his garret aften ten years ; but he never achieved 
any great financial success because of his erratic ideas on the 
subject of money. 

Balzac was a man of tremendous physical vigor and 
boundless energy. He worked steadily and according to 
fixed methods, retiring at six in the evening and rising at 
midnight; then, by drinking coffee excessively, he kept him- 
self at work until noon of the following day, and often 
longer. His afternoons he spent walking about Paris, 
always with an eye to possible material for stories, observing 
people, their modes of dress and habits of living, the houses 
in which they lived, the streets ; everything, in fact, which 
might be of use in the devising of his stories. He took a 
very serious view of his work, and the indefatigable energy 
which he employed in original creation was equaled by the 
painstaking method with which he prepared his copy for 
publication, re-writing and revising up to the final proofs. 

By basing his stories on actual observations of real life 
Balzac made himself the father of modern realism. He 

19 



20 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

had the trick of being able to create the effect of truth by 
sheer mass of small things in the environment of the char- 
acters. In f act, he carried out this idea with such prolixity 
that in some passages the reader tends to be bored. It is 
interesting to note the contrast in method between Balzac 
and Maupassant in this connection. Almost as prominent 
as Balzac's love of actuality is his love of the exceptional 
situation. This led him frequently into extravaganza and 
melodrama. He said of himself: "I love exceptional be- 
ings; I am one of them." He had a passion for the 
shadowy, the mystic, the chicanery of secret societies, any- 
thing, in fact, which would add color to his stories. One 
must indeed recognize in the great realist a highly romantic 
strand of temperament. 

In the twenty years of his literary career Balzac wrote 
over a hundred stories, of which a few are short stories, but 
the great bulk novels. His purpose always was to present 
a detailed picture of the French life of his day in all its 
phases. He himself grouped his stories as follows : Scenes 
of (1) Private Life; (2) Provincial Life; (3) Parisian Life; 
(4) Political Life; (5) Military Life; (6) Country Life; 
these, with (7) Philosophical Studies, comprise nearly all of 
his stories, and to the whole he gave the title La Comedie 
Humaine. 

Balzac's style is forceful and vigorous, quite in character 
with himself and his subject matter. Often it is somewhat 
rough and lacks the artistic finish of many later French 
writers. At times he loved to revel in the grim and sordid, 
and in such stories his method of detail is apt to make the 
result brutal and revolting to English readers. But he 
rarely failed to make his story interesting, solid, and pro- 
found, no small distinction in a writer who produced as much 
as Balzac. 

The Atheist's Mass, Colonel Chabert, and An Episode of 
the Reign of Terror, the stories selected for this volume, 
show Balzac at his very best. He classified the first two as 
Scenes of Private Life, the other as Political. Most of his 



AN EPISODE OF THE REIGN OF TERROR 21 

short stories are scattered through volumes containing longer 
stories, so that it is difficult to locate them. However, several 
volumes of them may now be had in the Everyman Library. 
Balzac remained a bachelor for fifty years, but in 1850 
he went to Russia and there married Madame Hanska, with 
whom he had been acquainted for many years. He returned 
to Paris and to his work, but the feverish activity with 
which he had worked so many years at last wore him out 
and he died August 18, 1850. 

AN EPISODE OF THE REIGN OF TERROR 1 

By HONORS DE BALZAC 

About eight o'clock on the evening of January 22nd, 1793, 
an aged woman was coming down the sharp descent of the 
Faubourg Saint-Martin that ends in front of the church of 
Saint-Laurent. Snow had fallen so heavily all day long that 
hardly a footfall could be heard. The streets were deserted. 
Fears that the silence around naturally enough inspired were 
increased by all the terror under which France was then 
groaning. So the old lady had thus far met with no one else. 
Her sight, which had long been failing, did not enable her 
to distinguish far off by the light of the street lamps some 
passers-by, moving like scattered shadows in the huge thor- 
oughfare of the Faubourg. She went on bravely all alone 
in the midst of this solitude, as if her age were a talisman 
that could be relied on to preserve her from any mishap. 

When she had passed the Rue des Morts she thought she 
perceived the heavy, firm tread of a man walking behind her. 
It occurred to her that it was. not the first time she had heard 
this sound. She was alarmed at the idea that she was being 

1. That period of the French Revolution when the faction in power 
made it a principle to execute every one considered hostile to their 
rule. It lasted from March, 1793, to the fall of Robespierre in July, 
1794. 



22 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

followed^ and she tried to walk faster in order to reach a 
fairly well-lighted shop, in the hope that, in the light it gave, 
she would be able to put to the test the suspicions that had 
taken possession of her. 

As soon as she was within the circle of light projected 
horizontally by the shop-front, she quickly turned her head 
and caught glimpse of a human form in the foggy darkness. 
This vague glimpse was enough for her. She tottered for 
a moment under the shock of terror that overwhelmed her, 
for she no longer doubted that she had been followed by the 
stranger from the first step she had taken outside her 
lodging. The longing to escape from a spy gave her strength. 
Without being able to think of what she was doing, she began 
to run — as if she could possibly get away from a man who 
must necessarily be much more agile than herself. 

After running for a few minutes she reached a confec- 
tioner's shop, entered it, and fell, rather than sat, down upon 
a chair that stood in front of the counter. Even while she 
was raising the creaking latch, a young woman, who was 
busy with some embroidery, raised her eyes, and through 
the small panes of the half-window in the shop door recog- 
nized the old-fashioned violet silk mantle, in which the old 
lady was wrapped. She hurriedly opened a drawer as if 
looking for something she was to hand over to her. 

It was not only by her manner and the look on her face 
that the young woman showed she was anxious to get rid 
of the stranger without delay, as if her visitor were one of 
those there was no pleasure in seeing; but, besides this, she 
allowed an expression of impatience to escape her on finding 
that the drawer was empty. Then, without looking at the 
lady, she turned suddenly from the counter, went toward 
the back shop, and called her husband, who at once made 
his appearance. 

"Wherever have you put away . . . ?" she asked of 



AN EPISODE OF THE REIGN OF TERROR 23 

him, with an air of mystery without finishing her question, 
but calling his attention to the old lady with a glance of 
her eyes. 

Although the confectioner could see nothing but the 
immense black silk bonnet, trimmed with bows of violet 
ribbon, that formed the strange visitor's headgear, he left 
the shop again, after having cast at his wife a look that 
seemed to say, "Do you think that I would leave that in 
your counter . . . ?" 

Surprised at the motionless silence of the old lady, the 
shopwoman turned and approached her, and as she looked at 
her she felt herself inspired with an impulse of compassion, 
perhaps not unmingled with curiosity. Although the woman's 
complexion showed an habitual pallor, like that of one 
who makes a practice of secret austerities, it was easy to see 
that a recent emotion had brought an unusual paleness to 
her face. Her headdress was so arranged as to conceal her 
hair. No doubt it was white with age, for there were no 
marks on the upper part of her dress to show that she used 
hair powder. The complete absence of ornament lent to 
her person an air of religious severity. Her features had a 
grave, stately look. In these old times the. manners and 
habits of people of quality were so different from those of 
other classes of society, that it was easy to distinguish one 
of noble birth. So the young woman felt convinced that the 
stranger was a ci-devant, an ex-aristocrat, and that she had 
belonged to the court. 

"Madame . . ." she said to her with involuntary 
respect, forgetting that such a title was now forbidden. 

The old lady did not reply. She kept her eyes fixed on 
the window of the shop, as if she could distinguish some 
fearful object in that direction. 

"What is the matter, citizeness ?" asked the shopkeeper, 
who had returned almost immediately. 



24 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

And the citizen-confectioner roused the lady from her 
reverie by offering her a little cardboard box wrapped in 
blue paper. 

"Nothing, nothing, my friends/' she answered in a sweet 
voice. She raised her eyes to the confectioner's face as if 
to give him a look of thanks, but seeing the red cap 2 on his 
head, she uttered a cry: "Ah, you have betrayed me!" 

The young woman and her husband replied by a gesture 
of horror at the thought, which made the stranger blush, 
perhaps at having suspected them, perhaps with pleasure. 

"Pardon me," she said, with childlike gentleness. Then, 
taking a louis d'or s from her pocket, she offered it to the 
confectioner: "Here is the price we agreed on," she added. 

There is a poverty that the poor readily recognize. The 
confectioner and his wife looked at one another, silently 
turning each other's attention to the old lady, while both 
formed one common thought. This louis d'or must be her 
last. The lady's hands trembled as she offered the piece of 
money, she looked at it with a sadness that had no avarice 
in it, but she seemed to realize the full extent of the sacrifice 
she made. Starvation and misery were as plainly marked 
on her face as the lines that told of fear and of habits of 
asceticism. In her dress there were traces of old magnifi- 
cence. It was of worn-out silk. Her mantle was neat though 
threadbare, with some carefully mended lace upon it. In a 
word, it was a case of wealth the worse for wear. The people 
of the shop, hesitating between sympathy and self-interest, 
began by trying to satisfy their consciences with words: 

"But, citizeness, you seem to be very weak " 

"Would Madame like to take something?" said the woman, 
cutting her husband short. 

2. The red cap was the symbol of revolution and was worn by the 
radicals 

3. A* gold coin worth $4.00. 



AN EPISODE OF THE REIGN OF TERROR 2& 

"We have some very good soup," added the confectioner, 

"It is so cold tonight. Perhaps Madame has had a chili 
while walking? But you can rest here and warm yourself 
for a while." 

"We are not as black as the devil!" exclaimed the con- 
fectioner. 

Won by the tone of kindness that found expression in 
the words of the charitable shopkeepers, the lady let them 
know she had been followed by a stranger, and that she was 
afraid to go back alone to her lodgings. 

"Is that all?" replied the man in the red cap, "wait a 
little, citizeness." 

He gave the louts d'or to his wife. . . . Then moved 
by that sort of gratitude that finds its way into the heart of 
a dealer when he has got an exorbitant price for some 
merchandise of trifling value, he went and put on his National 
Guard's uniform, took his hat, belted on his sword, and 
reappeared as an armed man. But his wife had had time 
to reflect. In her heart, as in so many more, reflection 
closed the open hand of benevolence. Anxious and fearful 
of seeing her husband involved in some bad business, the 
confectioner's wife tried to pull him by the skirt of his coat 
and stop him. But obeying his own charitable feelings, the 
good fellow offered at once to escort the old lady. 

"It seems that the man the citizeness is afraid of is still 
prowling about in front of our shop," said the young woman 
excitedly. 

"I am afraid he is," put in the lady naively. 

"What if he were a spj^? ... if there were some 
plot? . . . Don't go, and take back that box from 
her. ..." 

These words, whispered in the ear of the confectioner by 
his wife, froze the sudden courage that had inspired him. 

"Well, I'll just say a few words to him, and rid you 



26 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

of him soon enough/' exclaimed the shopkeeper, as he 
opened the door and slipped hurriedly out. 

The old lady, passive as a child and almost stupefied by 
her fear, sat down again on the chair. The good shopkeeper 
was soon back. His face, naturally ruddy enough and further 
reddened by his oven fire, had suddenly become pallid. He 
was a prey to such terror that his legs shook and his eyes 
looked like those of a drunken man. 

"Do you want to get our heads cut off, you wretch of an 
aristocrat ?" he cried out in a fury. "Come, show us your 
heels, and don't let us see you again, and don't reckon on 
my supplying you with materials for your plots !" 

As he ended, the confectioner made an attempt to take 
back from the old lady the little box which she had put into 
one of her pockets. But hardly had his bold hands touched 
her dress, than the stranger — preferring to risk herself amid 
the perils of the street without any other protector but God, 
rather than to lose what she had just bought, regained all the 
agility of youth. She rushed to the door, opened it briskly, 
and vanished from the sight of wife and husband as they 
stood trembling and astonished. 

As soon as the stranger was outside she started off at a 
rapid walk. But her strength soon began to desert her, and 
she heard the spy, who had so pitilessly followed her, making 
the snow crackle as he crushed it with his heavy tread. She 
had to stop. He stopped. She did not dare to address him, 
or even to look at him — it might be on account of the fear 
that had seized upon her, or because she could not think 
what to say. Then she went on again walking slowly. 

The man also slackened his pace so as to remain always 
just at the distance that enabled him' to keep her in sight. 
He seemed to be the very shadow of the old woman. Nine 
o'clock struck as the silent pair once more passed by the 
church of Saint-Laurent. 



AN EPISODE OF THE REIGN OF TERROR 27 

It is a part of the nature of all minds, even of the weakest, 
to find a feeling of calm succeed to any violent agitation, for if 
our feelings are infinite, our organism has its limits. So 
the stranger, finding that her supposed persecutor did her 
no harm, was inclined to see in him some unknown friend 
who was anxious to protect her. She summed up in her mind 
all the circumstances that had attended the appearance of 
the stranger, as if seeking for some plausible motives for 
this consoling opinion, and was then satisfied to recognize 
on his part a friendly rather than an evil purpose. Forgetful 
of the alarm, which this man had so short a time ago caused 
the confectioner, she now went on with a firm step into the 
upper part of the Faubourg Saint-Martin. 

After walking for half an hour she came to a house 
situated near the point where the street, which leads to the 
Pantin barrier, branches off from the main line of the 
Faubourg. Even at the present day the neighborhood is 
still one of the loneliest in all Paris. A northeast wind 
blowing over the Buttes Chaumont and Belleville whistled 
between the houses, or rather the cottages, scattered about 
this almost uninhabited valley, in which the enclosures were 
formed of fences built up of earth and old bones. The 
desolate place seemed to be the natural refuge of misery 
and despair. 

The man, all eagerness in the pursuit of this poor creature, 
who was so bold as to traverse these silent streets in the 
night, seemed struck by the spectacle that presented itself 
to his gaze. He stood still, full of thought, in a hesitating 
attitude, in the feeble light of a street lamp, the struggling 
rays of which could hardly penetrate the fog. Fear seemed 
to sharpen the sight of the old lady, who thought she saw 
something of evil omen in the looks of the stranger. She 
felt her terror reawakening, and took advantage of the 
seeming hesitation that had brought the man to a standstill 



28 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

to slip through a shadow to the door of a solitary house, she 
pushed back a spring latch and disappeared in an instant 
like a ghost upon the stage. 

The unknown man, without moving from where he stood, 
kept his eyes fixed on the house, the appearance of which 
was fairly typical of that of the wretched dwelling places 
of this suburb of Paris. The tumble-down hovel was built 
of bricks covered with a coat of yellow plaster, so full of 
cracks that one feared to see the whole fall down in a heap 
of ruins before the least effort of the wind. There were 
three windows to each floor, and their frames, rotten with 
damp and warped by the action of the sun, suggested that 
the cold must penetrate freely into the rooms. The lonely 
house looked like some old tower that time has forgotten to 
destroy. A feeble gleam lit up the warped and crooked 
window-sashes of the garret window, that showed up the 
roof of this poor edifice, while all the rest of the house was 
in complete darkness. 

Not without difficulty the old woman climbed the rough 
and clumsy stair, in ascending which one had to lean on a 
rope that took the place of a handrail. She gave a low 
knock at the door of the garret room and hurrieolly took her 
seat on a chair, which an old man offered to her. 

"Hide yourself ! Hide yourself !" she said to him, "though 
we so seldom go out, our doings are known, our steps are 
spied upon. 

"Is there anything new then?'' asked another old woman 
who was seated near the fire. 

"That man, who has been prowling round the house since 
yesterday, followed me this evening. . . ." 

At these words the three inmates of the hovel looked at 
each other, while they showed on their faces signs of serious 
alarm. Of the three the old man was the least agitated, 



AN EPISODE OF THE REIGN OF TERROR 29 

perhaps because he was the most in danger. Under the 
weight of a great misfortune, or under the pressure of perse- 
cution, a brave man begins, so to say, by making the complete 
sacrifice of himself. He counts each day as one more victory 
won over fate. The looks of the two women fixed upon this 
old man made it easy to see that he was the one object of 
their keen anxiety. 

"Why lose our trust in God, my sisters?" he said in a 
voice low, but full of fervor; "we sang His praises in the 
midst of the cries of the murderers and of the dying at the 
convent of the Carmelites. 4 If He willed that I should be 
saved from that butchery, it was no doubt to preserve me 
for some destiny that I must accept without a murmur. God 
guards His own, and He can dispose of them according to 
His will. It is of yourselves, and not of me, that we must 
think." 

"No," said one of the old women, "what are our lives 
compared to that of a priest?" 

"Once I saw myself outside of the Abbey of Chelles, 5 
I considered myself as a dead woman," said one of the two 
nuns — the one who had remained in the house. 

"Here are the altar breads," said the other, who had just 
come in, offering the little box to the priest. "But ..." 
she cried out, "I hear footsteps on the stairs !" 

All three listened. . . . The sound ceased. 

"Do not be alarmed," said the priest, "if some one tries 
to get to see you. A person on whose good faith we can 
depend must by this time have taken all necessary steps to 
cross the frontier, in order to come here for the letters I 
have written to the Due de Langeais and the Marquis de 
Beauseant, asking them to see what can be done to take you 

4. An order of monks originally organized on Mt. Carmel in Pales- 
tine. 

5. An abbey founded in 660. It was pillaged and the inmates 
dispersed in the early days of the Revolution. 



30 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

away from this wretched country, and the suffering and 
death that await you here." 

"You are not going with us then?" exclaimed the two 
nuns in gentle protest, and with a look of something like 
despair. 

"My place is where there are still victims," was the 
priest's simple reply. 

They were silent and gazed at their protector with 
reverent admiration. „ 

"Sister Martha," he said, addressing the nun who had gone 
to get the altar breads, "this envoy of ours should answer 
'Fiat voluntas* Q to the password 'Hosanna/ " 

"There is some one on the stair !" exclaimed the other nun ; 
and she opened a hiding-place constructed in the roof. 

This time, in the deep silence, it was easy to catch the 
sound of the footsteps of some man, re-echoing on the stairs 
that were rough with lumps of hardened mud. The priest 
with some difficulty huddled himself into a kind of cupboard, 
and the nun threw some old clothes over him. 

"You can shut the door," he said in a smothered voice. 

The priest was hardly hidden away, when three knocks 
at the door made both the good women start. They were 
exchanging looks of inquiry without daring to utter a word. 
Both seemed to be about sixty years of age. Separated from 
the world for some forty years, they were like plants, that 
are so used to the air of a hothouse, that they die if one takes 
them out. Accustomed as they were to the life of the convent 
they had no idea of anything else. One morning their cloister 
had been broken open, and they had shuddered at finding 
themselves free. It is easy to imagine the state of nervous 
weakness the events of the Revolution had produced in their 
innocent minds. Unable to reconcile the mental habits of 
the cloister with the difficulties of life, and not fully under- 

6. "Thy will be done," from the Lord's Prayer. 



AN EPISODE OF THE REIGN OF TERROR 31 

standing the circumstances in which they were placed, they 
were like children of whom every care had been taken till 
now, and who, suddenly deprived of their mother's care, pray 
instead of weeping. So face to face with the danger which 
they now saw before them, they remained silent and passive, 
knowing of no other defense but Christian resignation. 

The man who had asked for admittance interpreted this 
silence in his own way. He opened the door and suddenly 
appeared in the room. The two nuns shuddered as they 
recognized the man, who for some time had been prowling 
around their house, and making inquiries about them. They 
remained motionless, looking at him with the anxious curi- 
osity of untaught children who stare in silence at a stranger. 

The man was tall in stature and heavily built. But there 
was nothing in his attitude, his general appearance, or the 
expression of his face, to suggest that he was a bad character. 
Like the nuns, he kept quite still, and slowly cast his eyes 
round the room he had entered. 

Two straw mats unrolled on the floor served for beds for 
the nuns. There was a table in the middle of the room, and 
there stood on it a brass candlestick, some plates, three 
knives, and a round loaf of bread. There was a very small 
fire in the grate. A few pieces of wood heaped up in a corner 
were a further sign of the poverty of these two recluses. 
One could see that the roof was in a bad state, for the 
walls, covered with a coat of very old paint, were stained 
with brown streaks that showed where the rain had leaked 
through. A reliquary, rescued no doubt from the sack of the 
Abbey of Chelles, served as an ornament to the mantelpiece. 
Three chairs, two boxes, and a shabby chest of drawers com- 
pleted the furniture of the room. A door near the fireplace 
suggested that there was a second room beyond. 

The individual, who had in such an alarming way intro- 
duced himself to this poor household, had soon taken mental 



32 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

note of all the contents of the little room. A feeling of pity- 
could be traced upon his countenance, and he cast a kindly 
look upon the two women, and appeared to be at least as 
much embarrassed as they were. The strange silence that 
all three had kept so far did not long continue, for at last 
the stranger realized the timidity and inexperience of the 
two poor creatures, and said to them in a voice that he tried 
to make as gentle as possible: 

"I do not come here as an enemy, citizenesses . . . " 
He stopped, as if recovering himself, and went on: 

"Sisters, if any misfortune comes your way, believe me 
I have no part in it. . . .1 have a favor to ask of you." 

They still kept silence. 

"If I am troubling you, if . . . if I am causing you 
pain, say so freely . . . and I will go away; but be 
assured that I am entirely devoted to you; that if there is 
any kindness I can do to you, you can claim it from me 
without fear; and that I am perhaps the only one who is 
above the law, now that there is no longer a king. . 

There was such an air of truth in his words, that Sister 
Agatha, she of the two nuns who belonged to the noble 
family of Langeais, and whose manners seemed to indicate 
that in old times she had known the splendors of festive 
society and had breathed the air of the court — pointed with 
an alert movement to one of the chairs as if asking the visitor 
to be seated. The stranger showed something of pleasure 
mingled with sadness, as he understood this gesture, but 
before taking the chair he waited till both the worthy ladies 
were seated. 

"You have given a refuge here," he continued, "to a 

venerable priest, one of those who refused the oath, 7 and 

who had a miraculous escape from the massacre at the 

7. A decree in 1790 compelled all the clergy to take an oath to 
support the Revolutionary government. Many refused and became 
refugees. 



AN EPISODE OF THE REIGN OF TERROR 33 

Carmelites. . . . " "Hosanna!" . . . said Sister 
Agatha, interrupting the stranger, and looking at him with 
anxious curiosity. 

"I don't think that is his name/' he replied. 

"But, sir, we have no priest here," said Sister Martha, 
eagerly. 

"If that is so, you ought to be more careful and prudent." 
answered the stranger in a gentle tone, as he stretched out 
his hand to the table and took a breviary from it. "I don't 
suppose you know Latin, and . 

He said no more, for the extraordinary emotion depicted 
on the faces of the two poor nuns made him fear that he 
had gone too far. They were trembling, and their eyes 
filled with tears. 

"Don't be alarmed," he said in a voice that seemed all 
sincerity, "I know the name of your guest, and your own 
names, too, and for the last three days I have been aware 
of your distress and of your devoted care for the venerable 
Abbede ..." 

"Hush !" said Sister Agatha, in her simplicity, putting a 
finger to her lips. 

"You see, Sister, that if I had had in my mind the horrible 
idea of betraying you, I could have done so already, again 
and again. ..." 

Hearing these words, the priest extricated himself from 
his prison, and came out again into the room. 

"I could not possibly believe, sir," he said to the stranger, 
"that you were one of our persecutors, and I trust myself 
to you. What do you want of me?" 

The holy confidence of the priest, the nobility of mind 
that showed itself in his every look, would have disarmed 
even assassins. The mysterious man, whose coming had 
caused such excitement in this scene of resigned misery,, 
gazed for a moment at the group formed by the three others ;. 



34 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

then, taking a tone in which there was no longer any hesi- 
tation, he addressed the priest in these w,ords: 

"Father, I came to ask you to say a mass for the dead, 
for the repose of the soul ... of one . . . of a 
sacred personage, whose body will never be laid to rest in 
consecrated ground. . 

The priest gave an involuntary shudder. The nuns, who 
did not yet understand to whom it was the stranger alluded, 
sat in an attitude of curiosity, their heads stretched forward, 
their faces turned toward the two who were speaking 
together. The priest looked closely at the stranger, on whose 
face there was an unmistakable expression of anxiety, and 
also of earnest entreaty. 

"Well," replied the priest, "come back this evening at 
midnight, and I shall be ready to celebrate the only rites for 
the dead that we may be able to offer up in expiation for the 
crime of which you speak. . 

The stranger started, but it seemed that some deep and 
soothing satisfaction was triumphing over his secret sorrow. 
After having respectfully saluted the priest and the two holy 
women, he took his departure, showing a kind of silent 
gratitude, which was understood by these three generous 
souls. 

About two hours after this scene the stranger returned, 
knocked softly at the door of the garret, and was admitted 
by Mademoiselle de Beauseant, who led him into the inner 
room of this poor place of refuge, where everything had been 
made ready for the ceremony. 

Between two chimney shafts that passed up through the 
room, the nuns had placed the old chest of drawers, the 
antiquated outlines of which were hidden by a magnificent 
altar frontal of green watered silk. A large crucifix of 
ivory and ebony hung on the yellow- washed wall contrasting 
so strongly with surrounding bareness, that the eye could 



AN EPISODE OF THE REIGN OF TERROR 35 

not fail to be drawn to it. Four slender little tapers, which 
the Sisters had succeeded in fixing on this improvised altar 
by attaching them to it with sealing wax, threw out a dim 
light that was hardly reflected by the wall. This feeble 
illumination barely gave light to the rest of the room; but, 
as it thus shone only on the sacred objects, it seemed like 
a light sent down from heaven on this unadorned altar. The 
floor was damp. The roof, which slanted down sharply on 
two sides, as is usual in garret rooms, had some cracks in it 
through which came the night wind — icy cold. 

Nothing could be more devoid of all pomp, and nevertheless 
there was perhaps never anything more solemn than this 
mournful ceremony. A profound silence, in which one could 
have heard the least sound uttered on the highway outside, 
lent a kind of somber maj esty to the midnight scene. Finally 
the greatness of the action itself contrasted so strongly with 
the poverty of its surroundings that the result was a feeling 
of religious awe. 

On each side of the altar the two aged nuns knelt on the 
tiled floor without taking any notice of its deadly dampness, 
and united their prayers with those of the priest, who, robed 
in his sacerdotal vestments, placed on, the altar a chalice 
of gold adorned with precious stones, a consecrated vessel 
that had been saved, no doubt, from the pillage of the Abbey 
of Chelles. Beside this chalice, a token of royal munificence, 
the wine and water destined for the Holy Sacrifice stood 
ready in two glasses, such as one would hardly have found 
in the poorest inn. For want of a missal the priest had 
placed a small prayer-book on the corner of the altar. An 
ordinary plate had been prepared for the washing of the 
hands, in this case hands all innocent and free from blood. 
There was the contrast of littleness with immensity; of 
poverty with noble sublimity; of what was meant for profane 
uses with what was consecrated to God. 



36 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

The stranger knelt devoutly between the two nuns. But 
suddenly, as he noticed that, having no other means of 
marking that this was a mass offered for the dead, the priest 
had placed a knot of crape on the crucifix and on the base 
of the chalice, thus putting holy things in mourning, the 
stranger's mind was so mastered by some recollection that 
drops of sweat stood out upon his broad forehead. The 
four silent actors in the scene looked at each other mysteri- 
ously. Then their souls, acting and reacting on each other, 
inspired with one common thought, united them in devout 
sympathy. It seemed as if their minds had evoked the 
presence of the martyr whose remains the quicklime had 
burned away, and that his shade was present with them in 
all its kingly majesty. They were celebrating a requiem 
without the presence of the body of the departed. Under 
the disjointed laths and tiles of the roof four Christians were 
about to intercede with God for a King of France, 8 and 
perform his obsequies though there was no coffin before the 
altar. There was the purest of devoted love, an act of 
wondrous loyalty performed without a touch of self-con- 
sciousness. No doubt, in the eyes of God, it was like the 
gift of the glass of water that ranks with the highest of 
virtues. All the monarchy was there, finding voice in the 
prayers of a priest and two poor women; but perhaps the 
Revolution, too, was represented by that man, whose face 
showed too much remorse to leave any doubt that he was 
fulfilling a duty inspired by deep repentance. 

Before he pronounced the Latin words, Introibo ad altare 
Dei, 9 the priest, as if by an inspiration from on high, turned 
to the three who were with him as the representatives of 
Christian France, and said to them, as though to banish 
from their sight all the misery of the garret room : 

8. Louis XVI, beheaded Jan. 21, 1793. 

9. "I will go unto the altar of God." 



AN EPISODE OF THE REIGN OF TERROR 37 

''We are about to enter into the sanctuary of God !" 

At these words, uttered with deep devotion, a holy awe 
took possession of the stranger and the two nuns. Under 
the vast arches of St. Peter's at Rome these Christians could 
not have realized the majesty of God's Presence more plainly 
than in that refuge of misery; so true is it that between 
Him and man all outward things seem useless, and His 
greatness comes from Himself alone. The stranger showed 
a really fervent devotion. So the same feelings united the 
prayers of these four servants of God and the king. The 
sacred words sounded like a heavenly music in the midst 
of the silence. There was a moment when the unknown man 
could not restrain his tears. It was at the Pater Noster, 10 
when the priest added this prayer in Latin which, no doubt, 
the stranger understood: 

"Et remitte scelus regicidis sicut Ludovicus eis remisit 
semetipse" (And forgive their crime to the regicides, as 
Louis himself forgave them.) 

The nuns saw two large tear-drops making lines of mois- 
ture down the strong face of the unknown, and falling to the 
floor. 

The Office for the Dead was recited. The Domine salvum 
fac regem, 11 chanted in a low voice, touched the hearts of 
these faithful Royalists, who thought how the child king, 
for whom at that moment they were imploring the help of 
the Most High, was a captive in the hands of his enemies. 
The stranger shuddered as he remembered that perhaps a 
fresh crime might be committed, in which he would no doubt 
be forced to have a share. 

When the Office for the Dead was ended, the priest made 
a sign to the two nuns, and they withdrew. As soon as he 
found himself alone with the stranger, he went toward him 

10. "Our Father," the opening words in the Lord's Prayer in Latin. 

11. "O Lord, save the king," part of the mass said for the king. 



38 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

with a sad and gentle air, and said to him in a fatherly 
voice : 

"My son, if you have imbrued your hands in the blood of 
the martyr king, confide in me. There is no* fault that is 
not blotted out in God's eyes by a repentance as sincere and 
as touching as yours appears to be." 

At the first words uttered by the priest the stranger gave 
way to an involuntary movement of alarm. But he recovered 
his self-control and looked calmly at the astonished priest. 

"Father," he said to him, in a voice that showed evident 
signs of emotion, "no one is more innocent than I am of 
the blood that has been shed. . . . " 

"It is my duty to take your word for it," said the priest. 

There was a pause, during which once more he looked 
closely at his penitent. Then, persisting in taking him for 
one of those timid members of the National Convention 12 
who abandoned to the executioner a sacred and inviolable 
head in order to save their own, he spoke once more in a 
grave tone: 

"Consider, my son, that in order to be guiltless of this 
great crime it does not suffice merely to have had no direct 
co-operation in it. Those who, although they could have 
defended the king, left their swords in their scabbards, will 
have a very heavy account to render to the King of Heaven. 
Oh, yes !" added the old priest, shaking his head 
expressively from side to side. "Yes, very heavy ! . . 
for in standing idle, they have made themselves the involun- 
tary accomplices of this awful misdeed." 

"Do you think/' asked the man, as if struck with horror, 
"that even an indirect participation in it will be punished? 

12. The revolutionary government of France between Sept. 21, 
1792, and Oct. 26, 1795. This Convention declared France a republic. 
There were three factions : the moderates or Girondists, the radicals or 
Jacobins, and those who were undecided, waiting for developments. 
The reference in the text is to this last group, many of whom finally 
voted with the radicals for the execution of the king. 



AN EPISODE OF THE REIGN OF TERROR 39 

Are we then to take it that, say, a soldier who 
was ordered to keep the ground at the scaffold is guilty? 

The priest hesitated. Pleased at the dilemma in which he 
had put this Puritan of Royalism by placing him between 
the doctrine of passive obedience, which, according to the 
partisans of the monarchy, must be the essence of the 
military code, and the equally important doctrine which was 
the sanction of the respect due to the person of the king, 
the stranger eagerly accepted the priest's hesitation as 
indicating a favorable solution of the doubts that seemed to 
harass him. Then, in order not to give the venerable theo- 
logian further time for reflection, he said to him : 

"I would be ashamed to offer you any honorarium for 
the funeral service you have just celebrated for the repose 
of the soul of the king, and to satisfy my own conscience. 
One can only pay the price of what is inestimable by offering 
that which is also beyond price. Will you therefore conde- 
scend, sir, to accept the gift I make you of a sacred relic. 
Perhaps the day will come when you will under- 
stand its value/' 

As he ceased speaking, the stranger held out to the priest 
a little box that was extremely light. The latter took it in 
his hands automatically, so to say, for the solemnity of the 
words of this man, the tone in which he spoke, the reverence 
with which he handled the box, had plunged him into a 
reverie of deep astonishment. Then they returned to the 
room where the two nuns were waiting for them. 

"You are," said the stranger to them, "in a house, the 
proprietor of which, the plasterer, Mucius Scaevola, who 
lives in the first story, is famous in the quarter for his 
patriotism. But all the same he is secretly attached to the 
Bourbons. 13 Formerly he was a huntsman to Monseigneur 

13. The name of the royal house of France. 



40 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

the Prince de Conti, and he owes his fortune to him. By- 
staying here you are safer than anywhere else in France. 
Remain here, therefore. Certain pious souls will provide 
for your needs, and you can wait without danger for less 
evil times. A year hence, on January 21st" (as he pro- 
nounced these last words he could not conceal an involuntary 
start), "if this poor place is still your refuge, I shall come 
back to assist once more with you at a mass of expiation. ,, 

He stopped without further explanation. He saluted the 
silent inhabitants of the garret, took in with a last look the 
signs that told of their poverty, and left the room. 

For the two simple nuns such an adventure had all the 
interest of a romance. So when the venerable abbe had told 
them of the mysterious present so solemnly made to him 
by this man, they placed the box on the table, and the feeble 
light of the candle, shining on the three anxious faces, 
showed on all of them a look of indescribable curiosity. 
Mademoiselle de Langeais opened the box and found in it a 
handkerchief of fine cambric soiled with perspiration. As 
they unfolded it they saw spots on it: 

"They are blood stains," said the priest. 

"It is marked with the royal crown!" exclaimed the other 
Sister. 

With a feeling of horror the two Sisters dropped the 
precious relic. For these two simple souls the mystery that 
surrounded the stranger had become something inexplicable. 
And, as for the priest, from that day he did not even attempt 
to find an explanation of it in his own mind. 

It was not long before the three prisoners realized that 
notwithstanding the Terror an invisible hand was stretched 
out to protect them. At first firewood and provisions were 
sent in for them. Then the two nuns guessed that a woman 
was associated with their protector, for they were sent linen 
and clothes that would make it possible for them to go out 



AN EPISODE OF THE REIGN OF TERROR 41 

without attracting attention by the aristocratic fashion of 
the dress they had been forced to wear till then. Finally 
Mucius Scaevola provided them with two "civic cards," 
certificates of good citizenship. Often by roundabout ways 
they received warnings that were necessary for the safety 
of the priest, and they recognized that these friendly hints 
came so opportunely that they could only emanate from some 
one who was initiated into the secrets of the state. Notwith- 
standing the famine from which Paris was suffering, the 
refugees found rations of white bread left regularly at their 
garret door by invisible hands. However, they thought they 
could identify in Mucius Scaevola the mysterious agent of 
this beneficence, which was always as ingenious as it was 
well directed. 

The noble refugees in the garret could have no doubt but 
that their protector was the same person who had come to 
assist at the mass of expiation on the night of January 22nd, 
1793. He thus became the object of a very special regard 
on the part of all three. They hoped in him only, lived 
only thanks to him. They had added special prayers for 
him to their devotions ; morning and night these pious souls 
offered up petitions for his welfare, for his prosperity, for 
his salvation. They begged God to remove all temptations 
from him, to deliver him from his enemies, and to give him a 
long and peaceful life. Their gratitude was thus, so to say, 
daily renewed, but was inevitably associated with a feeling 
of curiosity that became keener as day after day went by. 

The circumstances that had attended the appearance of 
the stranger were the subject of their conversations. They 
formed a thousand conjectures with regard to him, and it was 
a fresh benefit to them of another kind that he thus served 
to distract their minds from other thoughts. They were quite 
determined that on the night, when, according to his promise, 
he would come back to celebrate the mournful anniversarv of 



42 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

the death of Louis XVI, they would not let him go without 
establishing more friendly relations with him. 

The night to which they had looked forward so impatiently 
came at last. At midnight the heavy footsteps of the un- 
known resounded on the old wooden stair. The room had 
been made ready to receive him; the altar was prepared. 
This time the Sisters opened the door before he reached it, 
and both hastened to show a light on the staircase. Made- 
moiselle de Langeais even went down a few steps in order 
the sooner to see their benefactor. 

"Come/' she said to him in a voice trembling with affection, 
"come . . . you are expected." 

The man raised his head, and without replying cast a 
gloomy look at the nun. She felt as if a mantle of ice had 
fallen around her, and kept silence. At the sight of him 
the feeling of gratitude and of curiosity died out in all their 
hearts. He was perhaps less cold, less taciturn, less terrible 
than he appeared to these souls, whom the excitement of 
their feelings disposed to a warm and friendly welcome. The 
three poor prisoners realized that the man wished to remain 
a stranger to them, and they accepted the situation. 

The priest thought that he noticed a smile, that was at 
once repressed, play upon the lips of the unknown, when 
he remarked the preparations that had been made for his 
reception. He heard mass and prayed. But then he went 
away after having declined, with a few words of polite 
refusal, the invitation that Mademoiselle de Langeais offered 
him to share with them the little supper that had been made 
ready. 

After the 9th Thermidor 14 — (the fall of Robespierre) — 
both the nuns and the. Abbe de Marolles were able to go 

14. The National Convention made over the calendar. Sept. 22, 
1792, was declared the beginning of the year 1. There were twelve 
months, their names being supposed to correspond to the time of the 
year in which they came. Thermidor was the eleventh. 



AN EPISODE OF THE REIGX OF TERROR 43 

about in Paris without incurring the least danger. The old 
priest's first excursion was to a perfumer's shop at the sign 
of the Reine des Fleurs, kept by Citizen Ragon and his wife, 
formerly perfumers to the court, who had remained faithful 
to the royal family. The Vendeans 15 made use of them as 
their agents for corresponding with the exiled princes and 
the royalist committee at Paris. The abbe, dressed as the 
times required, was standing on the doorstep of the shop, 
which was situated between the Church of Saint Roch and 
the Rue des Frondeurs, when a crowd, which rilled all the 
Rue Saint-Honore, prevented him from going out. 

"What is the matter?" he asked Madame Ragon. 

"It's nothing," she replied. "It's the cart with the execu- 
tioner on the way to the Place Louis XV. Ah ! we saw it 
often enough last year. But today, four days after the anni- 
versary of January 21st, one can watch that terrible proces- 
sion go by without feeling displeasure." 

"Why?" said the abbe, "it is not Christian of you to talk 
thus." 

"But it's the execution of the accomplices of Robespierre. 
They did their best to save themselves, but they are going in 
their turn where they sent so many innocent people !" 

The crowd was pouring past like a flood. The Abbe de 
Marolles, yielding to an impulse of curiosity, saw, standing 
erect on the cart, the man who three days before had come 
to hear his mass. 

"Who is that?" he said, "the man who ..." 

"It's the hangman," replied Monsieur Ragon, giving the 
executioner the name he bore under the monarchy. 

"My dear, my dear," cried out Madame Ragon, "Monsieur 

l'Abbe is dying !" 

15. The Vendeans, in southwestern France, were staunch Catholics 
and remained devoted to the monarchy, which upheld their church. A 
serious revolt took place in the Vendee when the National Convention 
tried to enforce its conscription act, demanding at the same time the 
oath of loyalty to the republican government from the priests. 



44 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

And the old lady seized a bottle of smelling salts with 
which to revive the aged priest from a fainting fit. 

"No doubt," he said^ "what he gave me was the handker- 
chief with which the King wiped his forehead as he went 
to martyrdom. . . . Poor man! . . . The steel 
blade had a heart when all France was heartless ! 

The perfumers thought that the poor priest was raving. 



THE ATHEIST'S MASS 

By HONORS DE BALZAC 

Doctor Bianchon — a physician to whom science owes 
a beautiful physiological theory, and who, though still a 
young man, has won himself a place among the celebrities 
of the Paris School, a center of light to which all the doctors 
of Europe pay homage — had practiced surgery before de- 
voting himself to medicine. His early studies were directed 
by one of the greatest surgeons in France, the celebrated 
Desplein, who was regarded as a luminary of science. Even 
his enemies admitted that with him was buried a technical 
skill that he could not bequeath to any successor. Like all 
men of genius he left no heirs. All that was peculiarly his 
own he carried to the grave with him. 

The glory of great surgeons is like that of actors whose 
work exists only so long as they live, and of whose talent 
no adequate idea can be formed when they are gone. Actors 
and surgeons, and also great singers like those artists who 
increase tenfold the power of music by the way in which 
they perform it — all these are the heroes of a moment. 
Desplein is a striking instance of the similarity of the desti- 
nies of such transitory geniuses. His name, yesterday so 
famous, today almost forgotten, will live among the special- 
ists of his own branch of science without being known be- 
yond it. 

But is not an unheard-of combination of circumstances 
required for the name of a learned man to pass from the 
domain of science into the general history of mankind ? Had 
Desplein that universality of acquirements that makes of a 
man the expression, the type of a century? He was gifted 

45 



46 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

with a magnificent power of diagnosis. He could see into 
the patient and his malady by an acquired or natural intui- 
tion, that enabled him to grasp the peculiar characteristics 
of the individual, and determine the precise moment, the 
hour, the minute, when he should operate, taking into ac- 
count both atmospheric conditions and the special tempera- 
ment of his patient. In order thus to be able to work hand 
in hand with Nature, had he studied the ceaseless union of 
organized and elementary substances contained in the atmos- 
phere, or supplied by the earth to man, who absorbs and 
modifies them so as to derive from them an individual result ? 
Or did he proceed by that power of deduction and analogy 
to which the genius of Cuvier - 1 owed so much ? 

However that may be, this man had made himself master 
of all the secrets of the body. He knew it in its past as in 
its future, taking the present for his point of departure. But 
did he embody in his own person all the science of his time, 
as was the case with Hippocrates, Galen, and Aristotle ? 2 
Did he lead a whole school towards new worlds of knowl- 
edge? No. And while it is impossible to deny to this inde- 
fatigable observer of the chemistry of the human body the 
possession of something like the ancient science of Magism — 
that is to say the knowledge of principles in combination, of 
the causes of life, of life as the antecedent of life, and what 
it will be through the action of causes preceding its exist- 
ence — it must be acknowledged that all this was entirely 
personal to him. Isolated during his life by egotism, this 
egotism was the suicide of his fame. His tomb is not sur- 
mounted by a pretentious statue proclaiming to the future 
the mysteries that genius has unveiled for it. 

But perhaps the talents of Desplein were linked with his 
beliefs, and therefore mortal. For him the earth's atmos- 

1. A famous French naturalist. 

2. The first two were Greek physicians, the third a Greek philoso- 
pher. 



THE ATHEIST'S MASS 47 

phere was a kind of envelope generating all things. He 
regarded the earth as an egg in its shell and unable to solve 
the old riddle as to whether the egg or the hen came first, 
he admitted neither the hen nor the egg. He believed neither 
in a mere animal nature giving origin to the race of man, nor 
in a spirit surviving him. Desplein was not in doubt. He 
asserted his theories. His plain open atheism was like 
that of many men, some of the best fellows in the world, 
but invincibly atheistic — atheists of a type of which reli- 
gious people do not admit the existence. This opinion could 
hardly be otherwise with a man accustomed from his youth 
to dissect the highest of beings, before, during, and after 
life, without finding therein that one soul that is so neces- 
sary to religious theories. He recognized there a cerebral 
center, a nervous center, and a center for the respiratory and 
circulatory system, and the two former so completely sup- 
plemented each other, that during the last part of his life 
he had the conviction that the sense of hearing wajs not abso- 
lutely necessary for one to hear, nor the sense of vision abso- 
lutely necessary for sight, and that the solar plexus could re- 
place them without one being aware of the fact. Desplein, 
recognizing these two souls in man, made it an argument 
for his atheism, without however assuming anything as to 
the belief in God. This man was said to have died in final 
impenitence, as many great geniuses have unfortunately 
died, whom may God forgive. 

Great as the man was, his life had in it many "little- 
nesses" (to adopt the expression used by his enemies, who 
were eager to diminish his fame), though it would perhaps 
be more fitting to call them "apparent contradictions. " Fail- 
ing to understand the motives on which high minds act, 
envious and stupid people at once seize hold of any surface 
discrepancies to base upon them an indictment, on which 
they straightway ask for judgment. If, after all, success 



48 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

crowns the methods they have attacked, and shows the co- 
ordination of preparation and result, all the same some- 
thing will remain of these charges flung out in advance. 
Thus in our time Napoleon was condemned by his contem- 
poraries for having spread the wings of the eagle towards 
England. They had to wait till 1822 for the explanation 
of 1804, and of the flat-bottomed boats of Boulogne. 

In the case of Desplein, his fame and his scientific knowl- 
edge not being open to attack, his enemies found fault with 
his strange whims, his singular character. For he possessed 
in no small degree that quality which the English call "eccen- 
tricity." Now he would be attired with a splendor that sug- 
gested Crebillon's 3 stately tragedy; and then he would sud- 
denly affect a strange indifference in the matter of dress. 
One saw him now in a carriage, now on foot. By turns 
sharp-spoken and kindly; assuming an air of closeness and 
stinginess, but at the same time ready to put his fortune at 
the disposal of exiled professors of his science, who would 
do him the honor of accepting his help for a few days — no 
one ever gave occasion for more contradictory judgments. 
Although for the sake of obtaining a decoration that doctors 
were not allowed to canvass for, he was quite capable of let- 
ting a prayer-book slip out of his pocket when at court, you 
may take it that in his own mind he made a mockery of 
everything. He had a deep disdain for men, after having 
caught glimpses of their true character in the midst of the 
most solemn and the most trivial acts of their existence. In 
a great man all his characteristics are generally in keeping 
with each other. If one of these giants has more talent than 
wit, it is all the same true that his wit is something deeper 
than that of one of whom all that can be said is that "He is a 
witty fellow. " Genius always implies a certain insight into 
the moral side of things. This insight may be applied to one 

3. A French writer of tragedies. 



THE ATHEIST'S MASS 49 

special line of thought, but one cannot see the flower with- 
out at the same time seeing the sun that produces it. The 
man who, hearing a diplomatist whom he was saving from 
death ask, "How is the Emperor?" remarked, "The courtier 
is recovering, and the man will recover with him!" was not 
merely a doctor or a surgeon, but was also not without a 
considerable amount of wit. Thus the patient, unwearying 
observation of mankind might do something to justify the 
exorbitant pretensions of Desplein, and make one admit 
that, as he himself believed, he was capable of winning as 
much distinction as a Minister of State, as he had gained as 
a surgeon. 

Amongst the problems that the life of Desplein presented 
to the minds of his contemporaries, we have chosen one of 
the most interesting, because the key to it will be found in 
the ending of the story, and will serve to clear him of many 
stupid accusations made against him. 

Among all Desplein's pupils at the hospital, Horace Bian- 
chon was one of those to whom he was most strongly at- 
tached. Before becoming a resident student at the Hotel 
Dieu, 4 Horace Bianchon was a medical student, living in 
the Quartier Latin 5 in a wretched lodging-house, known 
by the name of the Maison Vauquer. There the poor young 
fellow experienced the pressure of that acute poverty, which 
is a kind of crucible, whence men of great talent are ex- 
pected to come forth pure and incorruptible, like a diamond 
that can be subjected to blows of all kinds without breaking. 
Though the fierce fire of passion has been aroused, they ac- 
quire a probity that it cannot alter, and they become used 
to struggles that are the lot of genius, in the midst of the 
ceaseless toil, in which they curb desires that are not to be 
satisfied. Horace was an upright young man, incapable of 
taking any crooked course in matters where honor was in- 

4. A famous Paris hospital. 5. The student quarter of Paris. 



50 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

volved ; going straight to the point ; ready to pawn his over- 
coat for his friends, as he was to give them his time and his 
long vigils. In a word, Horace was one of those friends who 
do not trouble themselves as to what they are to receive in 
return for what they bestow, taking it for granted that, when 
it comes to their turn, they will get more than they give. 
Most of his friends had for him that heartfelt respect which 
is inspired by unostentatious worth, and many of them would 
have been afraid to provoke his censure. But Horace mani- 
fested these good qualities without any pedantic display. 
Neither a puritan nor a preacher, he would in his simplicity 
enforce a word of good advice with any oath, and was ready 
for a bit of good cheer when the occasion offered. A pleas- 
ant comrade, with no more shyness than a trooper, frank 
and outspoken — not as a sailor, for the sailor of today is a 
wily diplomatist — but as a fine young fellow, who has noth- 
ing in his life to be ashamed of, he went his way with head 
erect and with a cheerful mind. To sum it all up in one 
word, Horace was the Pylades of more than one Orestes, 6 
creditors nowadays playing most realistically the part of 
the Furies. 7 He bore his poverty with that gaiety which is 
perhaps one of the chief elements of courage, and, like all 
those who have nothing, he contracted very few debts. As 
enduring as a camel, as alert as a wild deer, he was stead- 
fast in his ideas and in his conduct. 

The happiness of Bianchon's life began on the day when 
the famous surgeon became acquainted with the good quali- 
ties and the defects, which, each as well as the other, make 
Dr. Horace Bianchon doubly dear to his friends. When the 
teacher of a hospital class receives a young man into his 
inner circle, that young man has, as the saying goes, his 

6. See Gayley's Classic Myths, page 315, for the story of a friend- 
ship which has become proverbial. 

7. Avenging deities. 



THE ATHEIST'S MASS 51 

foot in the stirrup. Desplein did not fail to take Bianchon 
with him as his assistant to wealthy houses, where nearly 
always a gratuity slipped into the purse of the student, and 
where, all unconsciously, the young provincial had revealed 
to him some of the mysteries of Parisian life. Desplein 
would have him in his study during consultations, and found 
work for him there. Sometimes he would send him to a 
watering place, as companion to a rich invalid, — in a word, 
he was preparing a professional connection for him. The 
result of all this was that after a certain time the tyrant of 
the operating theater had his right-hand man. These two — 
one of them at the summit of professional honors and sci- 
ence, and in the enjoyment of an immense fortune and an 
equal renown, the other a modest cipher without fortune or 
fame — became intimate friends. The great Desplein told 
everything to his pupil. Bianchon came to know the mys- 
teries of this temperament, half lion, half bull, that in the 
end caused an abnormal expansion of the great man's chest 
and killed him by enlargement of the heart. He studied the 
odd whims of this busy life, the schemes of its sordid avarice, 
the projects of this politician disguised as a man of science. 
He was able to forecast the disappointments that awaited 
the one touch of sentiment that was buried in a heart not of 
stone though made to seem like stone. 

One day Bianchon told Desplein that a poor water-carrier 
in the Quartier Saint- Jacques was suffering from a horrible 
illness caused by overwork and poverty. This poor native 
of Auvergne had only potatoes to eat during the hard win- 
ter of 1821. Desplein left all his patients. At the risk of 
breaking down his horse, he drove at full speed, accom- 
panied by Bianchon, to the poor man's lodging, and himself 
superintended his removal to a private nursing home estab- 
lished by the celebrated Dubois in the Faubourg Saint- 
Denis. He went to attend to the man himself, and gave him, 



52 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

when he had recovered, money enough to buy a horse and a 
water-cart. The Auvergnat distinguished himself by an un- 
conventional proceeding. One of his friends fell sick, and 
he at once brought him to Desplein, and said to his bene- 
factor : — 

"I would not think of allowing him to go to anyone else." 

Overwhelmed with work as he was, Desplein grasped the 
water-carrier's hand and said to him: — 

"Bring them all to me." 

He had this poor fellow from the Cantal 8 admitted to 
the Hotel Dieu, where he took the greatest care of him. 
Bianchon had on many occasions remarked that his chief had 
a particular liking for people from Auvergne, and especially 
for the water-carriers ; but as Desplein took a kind of pride 
in his treatment of his poor patients at the Hotel Dieu, his 
pupil did not see anything very strange in this. 

One day when Bianchon was crossing the Place Saint- 
Sulpice he caught sight of his teacher going into the church 
about nine o'clock in the morning. Desplein, who at this 
period would not go a step without calling for his carriage, 
was on foot, and slipped in quietly by the side door in the 
Rue du Petit Lion, as if he was going into some doubtful 
place. The student was naturally seized by a great curi- 
osity, for he knew the opinions of his master; so Bianchon 
too slipped into Saint-Sulpice and was not a little surprised 
to see the famous Desplein, this atheist, who thought very 
little of angels, as beings who give no scope for surgery, this 
scoffer, humbly kneeling, and where? ... in the Lady 
Chapel, where he heard a mass, gave an alms for the church 
expenses and for the poor, and remained throughout as 
serious as if he were engaged in an operation. 

Bianchon's astonishment knew no bounds. "If," he said 
to himself, "I had seen him holding one of the cords of the 

8. Auvergne, central France. 



THE ATHEIST'S MASS 53 

canopy at a public procession on Corpus Christi I might just 
laugh at him ; but at this time of day, all alone, without any 
one to see him, this is certainly something to set one think- 
ing r 

Bianchon had no wish to appear to be playing the spy 
on the chief surgeon of the Hotel Dieu, so he went away. 
It so happened that Desplein asked him to dine with him 
that day, not at his house but at a restaurant. Between the 
cheese and the dessert Bianchon, by cleverly leading up to 
it, managed to say something about the mass, and spoke of 
it as a mummery and a farce. 

"A farce," said Desplein, "that has cost Christendom 
more bloodshed than all the battles of Napoleon, all the 
leeches of Broussais. It is a papal invention, that only 
dates from the sixth century. What torrents of blood were 
not shed to establish the feast of Corpus Christi, by which 
the Court of Rome sought to mark its victory in the ques- 
tion of the real presence, and the schism that has troubled 
the church for three centuries ! The wars of the Count of 
Toulouse and the Albigenses were the sequel of that affair. 
The Vaudois and the Albigenses refused to recognize the 
innovation." 

In a word Desplein took a pleasure in giving vent to all 
his atheistic ardor, and there was a torrent of Voltairian 
witticisms, or to describe it more accurately, a detestable 
imitation of the style of the Citateur. 9 

"Hum!" said Bianchon to himself, "what has become of 
my devotee of this morning?" 

He kept silent. . He began to doubt if it was really his 
chief that he had seen at Saint-Sulpice. Desplein would not 
have taken the trouble to lie to Bianchon. They knew each 
other too well. They had already exchanged ideas on points 
quite as serious, and discussed systems of the nature of 

9. A book attacking orthodox Catholicism. 



54 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

things, exploring and dissecting them with the knives and 
scalpels of incredulity. 

Three months went by. Bianchon took no further step 
in connection with the incident, though it remained graven 
in his memory. One day that year one of the doctors of the 
Hotel Dieu took Desplein by the arm in Bianchon's pres- 
ence, as if he had a question to put to him. 

"Whatever do you go to Saint-Sulpice for, my dear 
master?" he said to him. 

"To see one of the priests there, who has caries in the 
knee, and whom Madame the Duchess of Angouleme did me 
the honor to recommend to my care," said Desplein. 

The doctor was satisfied with this evasion, but not so 
Bianchon. 

"Ah, he goes to see diseased knees in the church ! Why, 
he went to hear mass !" said the student to himself. 

Bianchon made up his mind to keep a watch on Desplein. 
He remembered the day, the hour, when he had caught him 
going into Saint-Sulpice, and he promised himself that he 
would be there next year on the same day and at the same 
hour, to see if he would catch him again. In this case the 
recurring date of his devotions would give ground for a sci- 
entific investigation, for one ought not to expect to find in 
such a man a direct contradiction between thought and 
action. 

Next year, on the day and at the hour, Bianchon, who 
by this time was no longer one of Desplein's resident stu- 
dents, saw the surgeon's carriage stop at the corner of the 
Rue de Tournon and the Rue du Petit Lion. His friend 
got out, passed stealthily along by the wall of Saint-Sulpice, 
and once more heard his mass at the Lady altar. It was in- 
deed Desplein, the chief surgeon of the hospital, the atheist 
at heart, the devotee at haphazard. The problem was get- 
ting to be a puzzle. The persistence of the illustrious man 



THE ATHEIST'S MASS 55 

of science made it all very complicated. When Desplein 
had gone out Bianchon went up to the sacristan, who came 
to do his work in the chapel, and asked him if that gentle- 
man was a regular attendant there. 

"Well, I have been here twenty years/' said the sacristan, 
"and all that time M. Desplein has come four times a year 
to be present at this mass. He founded it." 

"A foundation made by him !" said Bianchon, as he went 
away. "Well, it is more wonderful than all the mysteries. " 

Some time passed by before Dr. Bianchon, although the 
friend of Desplein, found an opportunity to talk to him of 
this singular incident in his life. Though they met in con- 
sultation or in society, it was difficult to get that moment 
of confidential chat alone together, when two men sit with 
their feet on the fender, and their heads resting on the 
tacks of their arm-chairs, and tell each other their secrets. 
At last, after a lapse of seven years, and after the Revolu- 
tion of 1830, when the people had stormed the Archbishop's 
house, when Republican zeal led them to destroy the gilded 
crosses that shone like rays of light above the immense sea 
of housetops, when unbelief side by side with revolt paraded 
the streets, Bianchon again came upon Desplein as he en- 
tered the church of Saint-Sulpice. The doctor followed him 
in, and took his place beside him, without his friend taking 
any notice of him, or showing the least surprise. Together 
they heard the mass he had founded. 

"Will you tell me, my dear friend," said Bianchon to 
Desplein, when they left the church, "the reason for this 
monkish proceeding of yours? I have already caught you 
going to mass three times, you of all men! You must tell 
me the meaning of this mystery, and explain to me this 
flagrant contradiction between your opinions and your con- 
duct. You don't believe in God and you go to mass ! My 
dear master, you are bound to give me an answer." 



56 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"I am like a good many devotees, men deeply religious 
to all appearance, but quite as much atheists as we can be, 
you and I." 

And then there was a torrent of epigrams referring to 
certain political personages, the best known of whom pre- 
sents us in our own time with a new edition of the Tartuffe 
of Moliere. 

"I am not asking you about all that," said Bianchon. 
"But I do want to know the reason for what you have just 
been doing here. Why have you founded this mass ?" 

"My word! my dear friend," said Desplein, "I am on the 
brink of the grave, and I may just as well talk to you about 
the early days of my life." 

Just then Bianchon and the great man were in the Rue 
des Quatre Vents, one of the most horrible streets in Paris. 
Desplein pointed to the sixth story of one of those high, 
narrow-fronted houses that stand like obelisks. The outer 
door opens on a passage, at the end of which is a crooked 
stair, lighted by those small inner windows that are aptly 
called jours de souffrance. 10 It was a house with a green- 
ish-colored front, with a furniture dealer installed on the 
ground floor, and apparently a different type of wretched- 
ness lodging in every story. As he raised his arm 
with a gesture that was full of energy, Desplein said to 
Bianchon — 

"I lived up there for two years !" 

"I know that. D'Arthez used to live there. I came 
there nearly every day when I was quite a young fellow, 
and in those days we used to call it 'the store bottle of great 
men V Well, what comes next ?" 

"The mass that I have just heard is connected with 
events that occurred when I was living in that garret in 
which you tell me D'Arthez once lived, the room from the 

10. Literally, "days of durance.'' 



THE ATHEIST'S MASS 57 

window of which there is a line hanging with clothes drying 
on it, just above the flower-pot. I had such a rough start 
in life, my dear Bianchon, that I could dispute with any 
one you like the palm for suffering endured here in Paris. 
I bore it all, hunger, thirst, want of money, lack of clothes, 
boots, linen — all that is hardest in poverty. I have tried 
to warm my frozen fingers with my breath in that 'store 
bottle of great men,' which I should like to revisit with you. 
As I worked in the winter a vapor would rise from my head, 
and I could see the steam of perspiration like we see it 
about the horses on a frosty day. I don't know where one 
finds the foothold to stand up against such a life. I was 
all alone, without help, without a penny to buy books or 
to pay the expenses of my medical education: without a 
friend, for my irritable, gloomy, nervous character did me 
harm. No one would recognize in my fits of irritation the 
distress, the struggles of a man who is striving to rise to 
the surface from his place in the very depths of the social 
system. But I can say to you, in whose presence I have no 
need to cloak myself in any way, that I had that basis of 
sound ideas and impressionable feelings, which will always 
be part of the endowment of men strong enough to climb 
up to some summit, after having long plodded through the 
morass of misery. I could not look for any help from my 
family or my native place beyond the insufficient allowance 
that was made to me. To sum it all up, at that time my 
breakfast in the morning was a roll that a baker in the Rue 
du Petit Lion sold cheaply to me because it was from the 
baking of yesterday or the day before, and which I broke 
up into some milk; thus my morning meal did not cost me 
more than a penny. I dined only every second day, in a 
boarding-house where one could get a dinner for eightpence. 
Thus I spent only fourpence-halfpenny a day. You know as 
well as I do what care I would take of such things as clothes 



58 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

and boots! I am not sure that in later life we feel more 
trouble at the treachery of a colleague than we have felt, you 
and I, at discovering the mocking grimace of a boot sole that 
is coming away from the sewing, or at hearing the rending 
noise of a torn coat cuff. I drank only water. I looked at 
the cafes with the greatest respect. The Cafe Zoppi seemed 
to me like a promised land, where the Luculluses of the 
Quartier Latin had the exclusive right of entry. 'Shall I 
ever/ I used sometimes to ask myself, 'shall I ever be able 
to go in there to take a cup of coffee and hot milk, or to 
play a game of dominoes ?' 

"Well, I brought to my work the furious energy that my 
poverty inspired. I tried rapidly to get a grasp of exact 
knowledge so as to acquire an immense personal worth in 
order to deserve the position I hoped to reach in the days 
when I would have come forth from my nothingness. I con- 
sumed more oil than bread. The lamp that lighted me during 
these nights of persistent toil cost me more than my food. 
The struggle was long, obstinate, without encouragement. 
I had won no sympathy from those around me. To have 
friends must one not associate with other young fellows, 
and have a few pence to take a drink with them, and go 
with them wherever students are to be found ? I had nothing. 
And no one in Paris quite realizes that nothing is really 
nothing. If I ever had any occasion to reveal my misery 
I felt in my throat that nervous contraction that makes our 
patients sometimes imagine there is a round mass coming 
up the gullet into the larynx. Later on I have come across 
people who, having been born in wealth and never wanting 
for anything, knew nothing of that problem of the Rule of 
Three : A young man is to a crime as a five franc 11 piece is 
to the unknown quantity x. These gilded fools would say 
to me : — 

11. A franc is worth twenty cents. 



THE ATHEIST'S MASS 59 

" 'But why do you get into debt? Why ever do you 
contract serious obligations?' 

"They remind me of that princess, who, on hearing that 
the people were in want of bread, said: — 'Why don't they 
buy sponge cakes ?' I should like very much to see one of 
those rich men, who complains that I ask him for too high 
a fee when there has to be an operation — yes, I should like 
to see him all alone in Paris, without a penny, without lug- 
gage, without a friend, without credit, and forced to work 
his five fingers to the bone to get a living. What would he 
do? Where would he go to satisfy his hunger? Bianchon, 
if you have sometimes seen me bitter and hard, it was 
because I was then thinking at once of my early troubles 
and of the heartlessness, the selfishness of which I have 
seen a thousand instances in the highest circles; or else I 
was thinking of the obstacles that hatred, envy, jealousy, 
calumny have raised up between me and success. In Paris 
when certain people see you ready to put your foot in the 
stirrup, some of them pull at the skirt of your coat, others 
loosen the saddle girth; this one knocks a shoe off your 
horse, that one steals your whip; the least treacherous of 
the lot is the one you see coming to fire a pistol at you point 
blank. You have talent enough, my dear fellow, to know 
soon enough the horrible, the unceasing warfare that medi- 
ocrity carries on against the man that is its superior. If 
one evening you lose twenty-five louis, 12 next morning you 
will be accused of being a gambler, and your best friends 
will say that you have lost twenty-five thousand francs 
last night. If you have a headache, you will be set down 
as a lunatic. If you are not lively, you will be set down as 
unsociable. If to oppose this battalion of pygmies, you call 
up your own superior powers, your best friends will cry out 
that you wish to devour everything, that you claim to lord it 

12. A gold coin worth $4.00. 



60 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

and play the tyrant. In a word, your good qualities will be 
turned into defects, your defects will be turned into vices, 
and your virtues will be crimes. If you have saved some 
one, it will be said that you have killed him. If your patient 
reappears, it will be agreed that you have made sure of the 
present at the expense of his future ; though he is not dead, 
he will die. If you stumble, it will be a fall ! Invent an}^- 
thing whatever, and assert your rights, and you will be a 
difficult man to deal with, a sharp fellow, who does not like 
to see young men succeed. So, my dear friend, if I do not 
believe in God, I believe even less in man. Do you not 
recognize in me a Desplein that is quite different from the 
Desplein about whom every one speaks ill? But we need 
not dig into that heap of mud. 

"Well, I was living in that house, I had to work to be 
ready to pass my first examination, and I had not a farthing. 
You know what it is ! I had come to one of those crises of 
utter extremity when one says to one's self: — 'I will enlist!' 
I had one hope. I was expecting from my native place a 
trunk full of linen, a present from some old aunts, who, 
knowing nothing of Paris, think about providing one with 
dress shirts, because they imagine that with thirty francs a 
month their nephew dines on ortolans. The trunk arrived 
while I was away at the Medical School. It had cost forty 
francs, carriage to be paid. The concierge of the house, a 
German cobbler, who lived in a loft, had paid the money 
and held the trunk. I took a walk in the Rue des Fosse- 
Saint-Germain-des-Pres and in the Rue de TEcole de Medi- 
cine, without being able to invent a stratagem which would 
put the trunk in my possession, without my being obliged 
to pay down the forty francs, which of course I meant to 
pay after selling the linen. My stupidity seemed a very 
fair sign to me that I was fit for no vocation but surgery. 
My dear friend, delicately organized natures, whose powers 



THE ATHEIST'S MASS ' 61 

are exercised in some higher sphere, are wanting in that 
spirit of intrigue which is fertile in resources and shifts. 
Genius such as theirs depends on chance. They do not seek 
out things, they come upon them. 

"At last, after dark, I went back to the house, just at 
the moment when my next room neighbor was coming in, 
a water-carrier named Bourgeat, a man from Saint-Flour 
in Auvergne. We knew each other in the way in which two 
lodgers come to know each other, when both have their rooms 
on the same landing, and they can hear each other going to 
bed, coughing, getting up, and end by becoming quite used 
to each other. My neighbor informed me that the landlord, 
to whom I owed three months' rent, had sent me notice to 
quit. I must clear out next day. He himself was to be 
evicted on account of his business. I passed the most sorrow- 
ful night of my life. 

"Where was I to find a porter to remove my poor belong- 
ings, my books? How was I to pay the porter and the 
concierge? Where could I go? With tears in my eyes I 
repeated these insoluble questions, as lunatics repeat their 
catchwords. I fell asleep. For the wretched there is a 
divine sleep full of beautiful dreams. Next morning, while 
I was eating my porringer full of bread crumbled into milk, 
Bourgeat came in, and said to me in bad French : — 

' 'Mister Student, I'm a poor man, a foundling of the 
hospice of Saint-Flour, without father or mother, and not 
rich enough to marry. You are not much better off for rela- 
tions, or better provided with what counts ? Now, see here, 
I have down below a hand-cart that I have hired at a penny 
an hour. All our things can be packed on it. If you agree, 
we will look for a place where we can lodge together, since 
we are turned out of this. And after all it's not the earthly 
paradise.' 

' 'I know it well, my good Bourgeat,' said I to him, 'but 



62 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

I am in a great difficulty. There's a trunk for me downstairs 
that contains linen worth a hundred crowns, with which I 
could pay the landlord and what I owe to the concierge, and 
I have not got as much as a hundred sous.' 13 

' 'Bah ! I have some bits of coin/ Bourgeat answered me 
joyfully, showing me an old purse of greasy leather. 'Keep 
your linen.' 

"Bourgeat paid my three months, and his own rent, and 
settled with the concierge. Then he put our furniture and 
my box of linen on his hand-cart and drew it through the 
streets, stopping at every house that showed a 'Lodgings to 
Let' card. As for me I would go upstairs to see if the 
j)lace to let would suit us. At noon we were still wandering 
about the Quartier Latin without having found anything. 
The rent was the great obstacle. Bourgeat proposed to me 
to have lunch at a wine-shop, at the door of which we left 
the hand-cart. Towards evening, in the Cour de Rohan off 
the Passage du Commerce, I found, under the roof at the 
top of a house, two rooms, one on each side of the staircase. 
We got them for a rent of sixty francs a year each. So there 
we were housed, myself and my humble friend. 

"We dined together. Bourgeat, who earned some fifty 
sous a day, had saved about a hundred crowns. . . . He 
would soon be in a position to realize his ambition and buy 
a water-cart and a horse. When he found out how I was 
situated — and he wormed out my secrets with a depth of 
cunning and at the same time with a kindly good nature that 
still moves my heart today when I think of it — he renounced 
for some time to come the ambition of his life. Bourgeat 
had been a street seller for twenty-two years. He sacrificed 
his hundred crowns for my future." 

At this point Desplein took a firm grip of Bianchon's arm. 

"He gave me the money required for my examinations ! 

13. A sou is worth one cent. 



THE ATHEIST'S MASS 63 

This man understood, my friend, that I had a mission, that 
the needs of my intelligence came before his. He busied 
himself with me, he called me his little one/ he lent me 
the money I wanted to buy books; he came in sometimes 
quite quietly to watch me at my work; finally he took quite 
a motherly care to see that I substituted a wholesome and 
abundant diet for the bad and insufficient fare to which I 
had been condemned. Bourgeat, a man of about forty, had 
the features of a burgess of the middle ages, a full rounded 
forehead, a head that a painter might have posed as the 
model for a Lycurgus. 14 The poor man felt his heart big 
with affection seeking for some object. He had never been 
loved by anything but a poodle, that had died a short time 
before, and about which he was always talking to me, asking 
if by any possibility the church would consent to have 
prayers for its soul. His dog, he said, had been really like 
a Christian, and for twelve years it had gone to church with 
him, without ever barking, listening to the organ without 
so much as opening its mouth, and remaining crouched 
beside him with a look that made one think it was praying 
with him. This man transferred all his affection to me. He 
took me up as a lonely, suffering creature. He became for 
me like a most watchful mother, the most delicately thought- 
ful of benefactors, in a word the ideal of that virtue that 
rejoices in its own good work. When I met him in the street 
he gave me an intelligent look, full of a nobility that you 
cannot imagine; he would then assume a gait like that of 
a man who was carrying no burden; he seemed delighted 
at seeing me in good health and well dressed. It was such 
devoted affection as one finds among the common people, 
the love of the little shop girl, raised to a higher level. 
Bourgeat ran my errands. He woke me up in the night 
at the appointed hour. He trimmed my lamp, scrubbed 
14. A Greek law-giver. 



64 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

our landing. He was a good servant as well as a good 
father to me, and as cleanly in his work as an English maid. 
He looked after our housekeeping. Like Philopoemen 15 he 
sawed up our firewood, and he set about all his actions with 
a simplicity in performing them that at the same time pre- 
served his dignity, for he seemed to realize that the end in 
view ennobled it all. 

"When I left this fine fellow to enter the Hotel Dieu as a 
resident student, he felt a kind of sorrowful gloom come 
over him at the thought that he could no longer live with me. 
But he consoled himself by looking forward to getting 
together the money that would be necessary for the expenses 
of my final examination, and he made me promise to come 
to see him on all my holidays. Bourgeat was proud of me. 
He loved me for my own sake and for his own. If you look 
up my essay for the doctorate you will see that it was dedi- 
cated to him. In the last year of my indoor course, I had 
made enough money to be able to repay all that I owed to 
this worthy Auvergnat, by buying him a horse and a water- 
cart. He was exceedingly angry at finding that I was thus 
depriving myself of my money, and nevertheless he was 
delighted at seeing his desires realized. He laughed and he 
scolded me. He looked at his water-barrel and his horse, 
and he wiped away a tear as he said to me : — 

" 'It's a pity ! Oh, what a fine water-cart ! You have 
done wrong! . . . The horse is as strong as if he came 
from Auvergne !' 

"I have never seen anything more touching than this 
scene. Bourgeat absolutely insisted on buying for me that 
pocket-case of instruments mounted with silver that you 
have seen in my study, and which is for me the most valued 

15. A Greek general, second century B. C, noted for his simple habits. 
Once, arriving at a house to which he had been invited to dinner, he 
was mistaken for one of his own retainers. The hostess, being late 
with the dinner, requested his help in the preparation. He threw off 
his cloak and began to cut fire-wood. When his host arrived and 
expressed dismay Philopoemen explained that he was only paying the 
penalty for his plainness. 



THE ATHEIST'S MASS 65 

of my possessions. Although he was enraptured with my 
first successes, he never let slip a word or a gesture that 
could be taken to mean, 'It is to me that this man's success 
is due !' And nevertheless, but for him, I should have been 
killed by my misery. The poor man broke himself down 
for my sake. He had eaten nothing but bread seasoned with 
garlic, in order that I might have coffee while I sat up at 
my work. He fell sick. You may imagine how I passed 
whole nights at his bedside. I pulled him through it the 
first time, but two years, after there was a relapse, and 
notwithstanding the most assiduous care, notwithstanding 
the greatest efforts of science, he had to succumb. No king 
was ever cared for as he was. Yes, Bianchon, to snatch this 
life from death I tried unheard-of things. I wanted to make 
him live long enough to allow him to see the results of his 
work, to realize all his wishes, to satisfy the one gratitude 
that had filled my heart, to extinguish a fire that burns in 
me even now ! 

"Bourgeat," continued Desplein, after a pause, with evi- 
dent emotion, "Bourgeat, my second father died in my arms, 
leaving me all he possessed by a will which he had made 
at a public notary's, and which bore the date of the year 
when we went to lodge in the Cour de Rohan. He had the 
faith of a simple workman. He loved the Blessed Virgin 
as he would have loved his mother. Zealous Catholic as he 
was, he had never, said a word to me about my own lack of 
religion. When he was in danger of death he begged me to 
spare nothing to obtain the help of the Church for him. 
I had mass said for him every day. Often in the night he 
expressed to me his fears for his future ; he was afraid that 
he had not lived a holy enough life. Poor man ! he used to 
work from morning to night. Who is heaven for then, if 
there is a heaven? He received the last sacraments like 
the saint that he was, and his death was worthy of his life. 

"I was the only one who followed his funeral. When I 



66 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

had laid my one benefactor in the earth, I tried to find out 
how I could discharge my debt of gratitude to him. I knew 
that he had neither family nor friends, neither wife nor 
children. But he believed ! he had religious convictions, 
and had I any right to dispute them? He had spoken to 
me timidly of masses said for the repose of the dead; he 
did not seek to impose this duty on me, thinking that it would 
be like asking to be paid for his services to me. As soon 
as I could arrange for the endowment, I gave the Saint- 
Sulpice the sum necessary to have four masses said there 
each year. As the only thing that I could offer to Bourgeat 
was the fulfilment of his pious wishes, I go there in his 
name on the day the mass is said at the beginning of each 
quarter of the year, and say the prayers for him that he 
wished for. I say them in the good faith of one who 
doubts: — 'My God, if there is a sphere where after their 
death you place those who have been perfect, think of good 
Bourgeat; and if he has still anything to suffer, lay these 
sufferings on me, so that he may enter the sooner into what 
they call Paradise !' This, my dear friend, is all that a 
man, who holds my opinions, can allow himself. God must 
be good-hearted, and He will not take it ill on my part. 
But I swear to you, I would give my fortune for the sake of 
finding the faith of Bourgeat coming into my brain/' 

Bianchon, who attended Desplein in his last illness, does 
not venture to affirm, even now, that the famous surgeon 
died an atheist. Will not those who believe take pleasure in 
the thought that perhaps the poor Auvergnat came to open 
for him the gate of Heaven, as he had already opened for 
him the portals of that temple on earth, on the facade of 
which one reads the words: — Aux grands hommes la Patrie 
reconnaissante? 16 

16. The inscription on the Pantheon in Paris : "A grateful country 
to its great men." 



COLONEL CHABERT 1 

By HONORS DE BALZAC 

"Hullo ! There is that old Box-coat again I" 

This exclamation was made by a lawyer's clerk of the 
class called in French offices a gutter-jumper — a messenger 
in fact — who at this moment was eating a piece of dry bread 
with a hearty appetite. He pulled off a morsel of crumb 
to make into a bullet, and fired it gleefully through the open 
pane of the window against which he was leaning. The pel- 
let, well aimed; rebounded almost as high as the window, 
after hitting the hat of a stranger who was crossing the 
courtyard of a house in the Rue Vivienne, where dwelt 
Maitre Derville, attorney- at-law. 

"Come, Simonnin, don't play tricks on people, or I will 
turn you out of doors. However poor a client may be, he is 
still a man, hang it all V said the head clerk, pausing in the 
addition of a bill of costs. 

The lawyer's messenger is commonly, as was Simonnin, a 
lad of thirteen or fourteen, who, in every office, is under 
the special jurisdiction of the managing clerk, whose errands 
and billets-doux keep him employed on his way to carry writs 
to the bailiffs and petitions to the Courts. He is akin to the 
street boy in his habits, and to the pettifogger by fate. The 
boy is almost always ruthless, unbroken, unmanageable, a 
ribald rhymester, impudent, greedy, and idle. And yet, 
almost all these clerklings have an old mother lodging on 
some fifth floor with whom they share their pittance of thirty 
or forty francs 2 a month. 

1. Translated by Mrs. Clara Bell. 

2. A franc is worth twenty cents. 

67 



68 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"If he is a man, why do you call him old Box-coat?" asked 
Simonnin, with the air of a schoolboy who has caught out 
his master. 

And he went on eating his bread and cheese, leaning his 
shoulder against the window jamb; for he rested standing 
like a cab-horse, one of his legs raised and propped against 
the other, on the toe of his shoe. 

"What trick can we play that cove?" said the third clerk, 
whose name was Godeschal, in a low voice, pausing in the 
middle of a discourse he was extemporizing in an appeal 
engrossed by the fourth clerk, of which copies were being 
made by two neophytes from the provinces. 

Then he went on improvising — 

"But, in his noble and beneficent wisdom, his Majesty, 
Louis the Eighteenth — (write it at full length, heh ! 
Desroches the learned — you, as you engross it!) — when he 
resumed the reins of Government, understood — (what did 
that old nincompoop ever understand?) — the high mission 
to which he had been called by Divine Providence! — (a note 
of admiration and six stops. They are pious enough at the 
Courts to let us put six) — and his first thought, as is proved 
by the date of the order hereinafter designated, was to repair 
the misfortunes caused by the terrible and sad disasters of 
the revolutionary times, by restoring to his numerous and 
faithful adherents — ("numerous" is flattering, and ought to 
please the Bench) — all their unsold estates, whether within 
our realm, or in conquered or acquired territory, or in the 
endowments of public institutions, for we are, and proclaim 
ourselves competent to declare, that this is the spirit and 
meaning of the famous, truly loyal order given in — Stop," 
said Godeschal to the three copying clerks, "that rascally 
sentence brings me to the end of my page. — Well," he went 
on, wetting the back fold of the sheet with his tongue, so 
as to be able to fold back the page of thick stamped 



COLONEL CHABERT 69 

paper, "well, if you want to play him a trick, tell him 
that the master can only see his clients between two and 
three in the morning; we shall see if he comes, the old 
ruffian !" 

And Godeschal took up the sentence he was dictating— 
"given in — Are you ready ?" 

"Yes," cried the three writers. 

It all went on together, the appeal, the gossip, and the 
conspiracy. 

"Given in — Here, Daddy Boucard, what is the date of 
the order ? We must dot our is and cross our t's, by Jingo ! 
It helps to fill the pages." 

"By Jingo I" repeated one of the copying clerks before 
Boucard, the head clerk, could reply. 

"What! have you written by Jingo?" cried Godeschal, 
looking at one of the novices, with an expression at once 
stern and humorous. 

"Why, yes," said Desroches, the fourth clerk, leaning 
across his neighbor's copy, "he has written We must dot our 
is and spelt it by Gingo!" 

All the clerks shouted with laughter. 

"Why ! Monsieur Hure, you take 'By Jingo' for a law 
term, and you say you come from Mortagne!" 3 exclaimed 
Simonnin. 

"Scratch it cleanly out," said the head clerk. "If the 
judge, whose business it is to tax the bill, were to see such 
things he would say you were laughing at the whole boiling. 
You would hear of it from the chief ! Come, no more of this 
nonsense, Monsieur Hure ! A Norman ought not to write out 
an appeal without thought. It is the 'Shoulder arms !' of the 
law." 

"Given in — in?" asked Godeschal. — "Tell me when, 
Boucard." 

3. A city in northern France noted for its legal institutions. 



70 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"June, 1814/' replied the head clerk, without looking up 
from his work. 

A knock at the office door interrupted the circumlocutions 
of the prolix document. Five clerks with rows of hungry 
teeth, bright, mocking eyes, and curly heads, lifted their 
noses towards the door, after crying all together in a singing 
tone, "Come in !" 

Boucard kept his face buried in a pile of papers — 
broutilles (odds and ends) in French law jargon — and went 
on drawing out the bill of costs on which he was busy. 

The office was a large room furnished with the traditional 
stool which is to be seen in all these dens of law-quibbling. 
The stove pipe crossed the room diagonally to the chimney 
of a bricked-up fireplace ; on the marble chimney-piece were 
several chunks of bread, triangles of Brie cheese, pork cut- 
lets, glasses, bottles, and the head clerk's cup of chocolate. 
The smell of these dainties blended completely with that of 
the immoderately overheated stove and the odor peculiar to 
offices and old papers. The floor was covered with mud and 
snow, brought in by the clerks. Near the window stood the 
desk with a revolving lid, where the head clerk worked, and 
against the back of it was the second clerk's table. The 
second clerk was at this moment in Court. It was between 
eight and nine in the morning. 

The only decoration of the office consisted in huge yellow 
posters, announcing seizures of real estate, sales, settle- 
ments under trust, final or interim judgments, — all the glory 
of a lawyer's office. Behind the head clerk was an enormous 
stack of pigeon-holes from the top to the bottom of the room, 
of which each division was crammed with bundles of papers 
with an infinite number of tickets hanging from them at the 
ends of red tape, which give a peculiar physiognomy to law- 
papers. The lower rows were filled with cardboard boxes, 
yellow with use, on which might be read the names of the 



COLONEL CHABERT 71 

more important clients whose cases were juicily stewing at 
this present time. The dirty window-panes admitted but 
little daylight. Indeed, there are very few offices in Paris 
where it is possible to write without lamplight before ten 
in the morning in the month of February, for they are all 
left to very natural neglect; everyone comes and no one 
stays ; no one has any personal interest in a scene of mere 
routine — neither the attorney, nor the counsel, nor the 
clerks, trouble themselves about the appearance of a place 
which, to the youths, is a schoolroom; to the clients, a pas- 
sage; to the chief, a laboratory. The greasy furniture is 
handed down to successive owners with such scrupulous care, 
that in some offices may still be seen boxes of remainders, 
machines for twisting parchment gut, and bags left by the 
prosecuting parties of the Chatelet (abbreviated to Chlet) — 
a Court which, under the old order of things, represented the 
present Court of First Instance (or County Court). 

So in this dark office, thick with dust, there was, as in all 
its fellows, something repulsive to the clients — something 
which made it one of the most hideous monstrosities of Paris. 
Nay, were it not for the moldy sacristies where prayers are 
weighed out and paid for like groceries and for the old- 
clothes shops, where flutter the rags that blight all the 
illusions of life by showing us the last end of all our festivi- 
ties — an attorney's office would be, of all social marts, the 
most loathsome. But we might say the same of the gam- 
bling-hell, of the Law Court, of the lottery office, of the 
brothel. 

But why? In these places, perhaps, the drama being 
played in a man's soul makes him indifferent to accessories, 
which would also account for the single-mindedness of great 
thinkers and men of great ambitions. 

"Where is my penknife ?" 

"I am eating my breakfast." 



72 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"You go and be hanged! here is a blot on the copy." 

"Silence, gentlemen !" 

These various exclamations were uttered simultaneously 
at the moment when the old client shut the door with the 
sort of humility which disfigures the movements of a man 
down on his luck. The stranger tried to smile, but the 
muscles of his face relaxed as he vainly looked for some 
symptoms of amenity on the inexorably indifferent faces of 
the six clerks. Accustomed, no doubt, to gauge men, he very 
politely addressed the gutter- jumper, hoping to get a civil 
answer from this boy of all work. 

"Monsieur, is your master at home? ,, 

The pert messenger made no reply, but patted his ear with 
the fingers of his left hand, as much as to say, "I am deaf." 

"What do you want, sir?" asked Godeschal, swallowing 
as he spoke a mouthful of bread big enough to charge a 
four-pounder, flourishing his knife and crossing his legs, 
throwing up one foot in the air to the level of his eyes. 

"This is the fifth time I have called," replied the victim. 
"I wish to speak to M. Derville." 

"On business?" 

"Yes, but I can explain it to no one but " 

"M. Derville is in bed; if you want to consult him on 
some difficulty, he does no serious work till midnight. But 
if you will lay the case before us, we could help you just as 
well as he can to " 

The stranger was unmoved; he looked timidly about him, 
like a dog who has got into a strange kitchen and expects a 
kick. By grace of their profession, lawyers' clerks have no 
fear of thieves; they did not suspect the owner of the box- 
coat, and left him to study the place, where he looked in 
vain for a chair to sit on, for he was evidently tired. Attor- 
neys, on principle, do not have many chairs in their offices. 
The inferior client, being kept waiting on his feet, goes away 



COLONEL CHABERT 73 

grumbling, but then he does not waste time, which, as an 
old lawyer once said; is not allowed for when the bill is taxed. 

"Monsieur," said the old man, "as I have already told you, 
I can not explain my business to any one but M. Derville. I 
will wait till he is up." 

Boucard had finished his bill. He smelt the fragrance 
of his chocolate, rose from his cane arm-chair, went to the 
chimney-piece, looked the old man from head to foot, stared 
at his coat, and made an indescribable grimace. He prob- 
ably reflected that whichever way this client might be wrung, 
it would be impossible to squeeze out a centime, 4 so he put in 
a few brief words to rid the office of a bad customer. 

"It is the truth, monsieur. The chief only works at night. 
If your business is important, I recommend you to return 
at one in the morning." The stranger looked at the head 
clerk with a bewildered expression, and remained motionless 
for a moment. The clerks, accustomed to every change of 
countenance, and the odd whimsicalities to which indecision 
or absence of mind gives rise in "parties," went on eating, 
making as much noise with their jaws as horses over a man- 
ger, and paying no further heed to the old man. 

"I will come again tonight," said the stranger at length, 
with the tenacious desire, peculiar to the unfortunate, to 
catch humanity at fault. 

The only irony allowed to poverty is to drive Justice and 
Benevolence to unjust denials. When a poor wretch has con- 
victed Society of falsehood, he throws himself more eagerly 
on the mercy of God. 

"What do you think of that for a cracked pot?" said 
Simonnin, without waiting till the old man had shut the 
door. 

"He looks as if he had been buried and dug up again," 
said a clerk. 

4. A copper coin worth a fifth of a cent. It is no longer current. 



74 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"He is some Colonel who wants his arrears of pay/' said 
the head clerk. 

"No, he is a retired concierge," said Godeschal. 

"I bet you he is a nobleman/' cried Boucard. 

"I bet you he has been a porter," retorted Godeschal. 
"Only porters are gifted by nature with shabby box-coats, 
as worn and greasy and frayed as that old body's. And 
did you see his trodden-down boots that let the water in, 
and his stock which serves for a shirt? He has slept in a 
dry arch." 

"He may be of noble birth, and yet have pulled the door- 
latch," cried Desroches. "It has been known !" 

"No," Boucard insisted, in the midst of laughter, "I main- 
tain that he was a brewer in 1789, and a Colonel in the time 
of the Republic." 

"I bet theater tickets round that he never was a soldier," 
said Godeschal. 

"Done with you," answered Boucard. 

"Monsieur ! Monsieur !" shouted the little messenger, open- 
ing the window. 

"What are you at now, Simonnin?" asked Boucard. 

"I am calling him that you may ask him whether he is 
a Colonel or a porter; he must know." 

All the clerks laughed. As to the old man, he was already 
coming upstairs again. 

"What can we say to him?" cried Godeschal. 

"Leave it to me," replied Boucard. 

The poor man came in nervously, his eyes cast down, 
perhaps not to betray how hungry he was by looking too 
greedily at the eatables. 

"Monsieur," said Boucard, "will you have the kindness to 
leave your name, so that M. Derville may know " 

"Chabert." 



COLONEL CHABERT 75 

"The Colonel who was killed at Eylau?" 5 asked Hure, 
who, having so far said nothing, was jealous of adding a jest 
to all the others. 

"The same, Monsieur/' replied the good man, with antique 
simplicity. And he went away. 

"Whew !" 

"Done brown !" 

"Poof!" 

"Oh!" 

"Ah r 

"Bourn I" 

"The old rogue V 

"Ting-a-ring-ting V 

"Sold again I" 

"Monsieur Desroches, you are going to the play without 
paying/' said Hure to the fourth clerk, giving him a slap 
on the shoulder that might have killed a rhinoceros. 

There was a storm of cat-calls, cries, and exclamations, 
which all the onomatopeia of the language would fail to rep- 
resent. 

"Which theater shall we go to?" 

"To the opera/' cried the head clerk. 

"In the first place," said Godeschal, "I never mentioned 
which theater. I might, if I chose, take you to see Madame 
Saqui." 

"Madame Saqui is not the play." 

"What is a play?" replied Godeschal. "First, we must 
define the point of fact. What did I bet, gentlemen? A 
play. What is a play? A spectacle. What is a spectacle? 
Something to be seen " 

"But on that principle you would pay your bet by taking 

5. Eylau is 'a town in East Prussia. An indecisive battle was fought 
here, Feb. 8, 1808, between the French under Napoleon, and the Ger- 
mans and Russians. 



76 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

us to see the water run under the Pont Neuf !" cried Simon- 
nin, interrupting him. 

"To be seen for money/' Godeschal added. 

"But a great many things are to be seen for money that 
are not plays. The definition is defective/' said Desroches. 

"But do listen to me !" 

"You are talking nonsense, my dear boy," said Boucard. 

"Is Curtius' a play?" said Godeschal. 

"No," said the head clerk, "it is a collection of figures — 
but it is a spectacle." 

"I bet you a hundred francs to a sou," 6 Godeschal resumed, 
"that Curtius' Waxworks forms such a show as might be 
called a play or theater. It contains a thing to be seen 
at various prices, according to the place you choose- to 
occupy." 

"And so on, and so forth!" said Simonnin. 

"You mind I don't box your ears !" said Godeschal. 

The clerks shrugged their shoulders. 

"Besides, it is not proved that that old ape was not mak- 
ing game of us," he said, dropping his argument, which was 
drowned in the laughter of the other clerks. "On my honor, 
Colonel Chabert is really and truly dead. His wife is mar- 
ried again to Comte Ferraud, Councillor of State. Madame 
Ferraud is one of our clients." 

"Come, the case is remanded till tomorrow," said Boucard., 
"To work, gentlemen. The deuce is in it ; we get nothing done 
here. Finish copying that appeal; it must be handed in 
before the sitting of the Fourth Chamber, judgment is to be 
given today. Come, on you go !" 

"If he really were Colonel Chabert, would not that impu- 
dent rascal Simonnin have felt the leather of his boot in the 
right place when he pretended to be deaf?" said Desroches, 
regarding this remark as more conclusive than Godeschal's. 

6. One cent. 



COLONEL CHABERT 77 

"Since nothing is settled/' said Boucard, 'let us all agree 
to go to the upper boxes of the Francais 7 and see Talma in 
Nero. Simonnin may go to the pit." 

And thereupon the head clerk sat down at his table, and 
the others followed his example. 

"Given in June eighteen hundred and fourteen (in 
words)/' said Godeschal. "Ready?" 

"Yes/' replied the two copying clerks and the engrosser, 
whose pens forthwith began to creak over the stamped paper, 
making as much noise in the office as a hundred cockchafers 
imprisoned by schoolboys in paper cages. 

"And we hope that my lords on the Bench/' the extempo- 
rizing clerk went on. "Stop ! I must read my sentence 
through again. I do not understand it myself." 

"Forty-six (that must often happen) and three forty- 
nines/' said Boucard. 

"We hope/' Godeschal began again, after reading all 
through the documents, "that my lords on the Bench will 
not be less magnanimous than the august author of the decree, 
and that they will do justice against the miserable claims of 
the acting committee of the chief Board of the Legion of 
Honor by interpreting the law in the wide sense we have 
here set forth " 

"Monsieur Godeschal, wouldn't you like a glass of water?" 
said the little messenger. 

"That imp of a boy !" said Boucard. "Here, get on your 
double-soled shanks-mare, take this packet, and spin off to 
the Invalides." 

"Here set forth/ 9 Godeschal went on. "Add in the inter- 
est of Madame la Vicomtesse (at full length) de Grandlieu." 

"What" cried the chief, "are you thinking of drawing up 
an appeal in the case of Vicomtesse de Grandlieu against 
the Legion of Honor — a case for the office to stand or fall 

7. The foremost theater in France. 



78 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

by ? You are something like an ass ! Have the goodness 
to put aside your copies and your notes; you may keep all 
that for the case of Navarreins against the Hospitals. It 
is late; I will draw up a little petition myself, with a due 
allowance of 'inasmuch/ and go to the Courts myself." 

This scene is typical of the thousand delights which, when 
we look back on our youth, make us say, "Those were good 
times." 

At about one in the morning Colonel Chabert, self-styled, 
knocked at the door of Maitre Derville, attorney to the Court 
of First Instance in the Department of the Seine. The por- 
ter told him that Monsieur Derville had not yet come in. 
The old man said he had an appointment, and was shown 
upstairs to the rooms occupied by the famous lawyer, who, 
notwithstanding his youth, was considered to have one of 
the longest heads in Paris. 

Having rung, the distrustful applicant was not a little 
astonished at finding the head clerk busily arranging in a 
convenient order on his master's dining-room table the papers 
relating to the cases to be tried on the morrow. The clerk, 
not less astonished, bowed to the Colonel and begged him to 
take a seat, which the client did. 

"On my word, Monsieur, I thought you were joking yes- 
terday when you named such an hour for an interview," said 
the old man, with the forced mirth of a ruined man, who 
does his best to smile. 

"The clerks were joking, but they were speaking the truth 
too," replied the man, going on with his work. "M. Derville 
chooses this hour for studying his cases, taking stock of 
their possibilities, arranging how to conduct them, deciding 
on the line of defense. His prodigious intellect is freer at 
this hour — the only time when he can have the silence and 
quiet needed for the conception of good ideas. Since he 



COLONEL CHABERT 79 

entered the profession, you are the third person to come to 
him for a consultation at this midnight hour. After coming 
in the chief will discuss each case, read everything, spend 
four or five hours perhaps over the business, then he will 
ring for me and explain to me his intentions. In the morn- 
ing from ten till two he hears what his clients have to say, 
then he spends the rest of his day in appointments. In the 
evening he goes into society to keep up his connections. So 
he has only the night for undermining his cases, ransacking 
the arsenal of the Code, and laying his plan of battle. He is 
determined never to lose a case; he loves his art. He will 
not undertake every case, as his brethren do. That is his 
life, an exceptionally active one. And he makes a great 
deal of money." 

As he listened to this explanation, the old man sat silent, 
and his strange face assumed an expression so bereft of intel- 
ligence, that the clerk, after looking at him, thought no more 
about him. 

A few" minutes later Derville came in, in evening dress ; 
his head clerk opened the door to him, and went back to finish 
arranging the papers. The young lawyer paused for a 
moment in amazement on seeing in the dim light the strange 
client who awaited him. Colonel Chabert was as absolutely 
immovable as one of the wax figures in Curtius' collection 
to which Godeschal had proposed to treat his fellow-clerks. 
This quiescence would not have been a subject for aston- 
ishment if it had not completed the supernatural aspect of 
the man's whole person. The old soldier was dry and lean. 
His forehead, intentionally hidden under a smoothly combed 
wig, gave him a look of mystery. His eyes seemed shrouded 
in a transparent film; you would have compared them to 
dingy mother-of-pearl with a blue iridescence changing in 
the gleam of the wax-lights. His face, pale, livid, and as thin 
as a knife, if I may use such a vulgar expression, was as 



80 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

the face of the dead. Round his neck was a tight black silk 
stock. 

Below the dark line of this rag the body was so com- 
pletely hidden in shadow that a man of imagination might 
have supposed the old head was due to some chance play of 
light and shade, or have taken it f or a portrait by Rembrandt/ 
without a frame. The brim of the hat which covered the old 
man's brow cast a black line of shadow on the upper part of 
the face. This grotesque effect, though natural, threw into 
relief by contrast the white furrows, the cold wrinkles, the 
colorless tone of the corpse-like countenance. And the ab- 
sence of all movement in the figure, of all fire in the eye, were 
in harmony with a certain look of melancholy madness, and 
the deteriorating symptoms characteristic of senility, giving 
the face an indescribably ill-starred look which no human 
words could render. 

But an observer, especially a lawyer, could also have read 
in this stricken man the signs of deep sorrow, the traces of 
grief which had worn into this face, as drops of water from 
the sky falling on fine marble at last destroy its beauty. A 
physician, an author, or a judge might have discerned a 
whole drama at the sight of its sublime horror, while the least 
charm was its resemblance to the grotesques which artists 
amuse themselves by sketching on a corner of the litho- 
graphic stone while chatting with a friend. 

On seeing the attorney, the stranger started, with the 
convulsive thrill that comes over a poet when a sudden noise 
rouses him from a fruitful reverie in silence and at night. 
The old man hastily removed his hat and rose to bow to the 
young man ; the leather lining of his hat was doubtless very 
greasy ; his wig stuck to it without his noticing it, and left 
his head bare, showing his skull horribly disfigured by a 
scar beginning at the nape of the neck and ending over the 
8. The celebrated Dutch portrait painter. 



COLONEL CHABERT 81 

right eye, a prominent seam all across his head. The sud- 
den removal of the dirty wig which the poor man wore to hide 
this gash gave the two lawyers no inclination to laugh, so 
horrible to behold was this riven skull. The first idea sug- 
gested by the sight of this old wound was, "His intelligence 
must have escaped through that cut/' 

"If this is not Colonel Chabert, he is some thorough-going 
trooper !" thought Boucard. 

"Monsieur/' said Derville, "to whom have I the honor of 
speaking?" 

"To Colonel Chabert." 

"Which ?" 

"He who was killed at Eylau," replied the old man. 

On hearing this strange speech, the lawyer and his clerk 
glanced at each other, as much as to say, "He is mad." 

"Monsieur/' the Colonel went on, "I wish to confide to you 
the secret of my position." 

A thing well worthy of note is the natural intrepidity of 
lawyers. Whether from the habit of receiving a great many 
persons, or from the deep sense of the protection conferred 
on them by the law, or from confidence in their mission, they 
enter everywhere, fearing nothing, like priests and physi- 
cians. Derville signed to Boucard, who vanished. 

"During the day, sir," said the attorney, "I am not so 
miserly of my time, but at night every minute is precious. 
So be brief and concise. Go to the facts without digression. 
I will ask for any explanations I may consider necessary. 
Speak." 

Having bid his strange client to be seated, the young man 
sat down at the table ; but while he gave his attention to the 
deceased Colonel, he turned over the bundles of papers. 

"You know, perhaps," said the dead man, "that I com- 
manded a cavalry regiment at Eylau. I was of important 



82 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

service to the success of Murat's 9 famous charge which de- 
cided the victory. Unhappily for me, my death is a historical 
fact, recorded in Victoires et Conquetes, where it is related 
in full detail. We cut through the three Russian lines, 
which at once closed up and formed again, so that we had 
to repeat the movement back again. At the moment when 
we were nearing the Emperor, 10 after having scattered the 
Russians, I came against a squadron of the enemy's cavalry. 
I rushed at the obstinate brutes. Two Russian officers, per- 
fect giants, attacked me both at once. One of them gave 
me a cut across the head that crashed through everything, 
even a black silk cap I wore next my head, and cut deep 
into the skull. I fell from my horse. Murat came up to 
support me ; he rode over my body, he and all his men, fifteen 
hundred of them — there might have been more ! My death 
was announced to the Emperor, who as a precaution — for he 
was fond of me, was the Master — wished to know if there 
were no hope of saving the man he had to thank for such 
a vigorous attack. He sent two surgeons to identify me and 
bring me into Hospital, saying, perhaps too carelessly, for he 
was very busy, "Go and see whether by any chance poor 
Chabert is still alive." These rascally saw-bones, who had 
just seen me lying under the hoofs of the horses of two regi- 
ments, no doubt did not trouble themselves to feel my pulse, 
and reported that I was quite dead. The certificate of death 
was probably made out in accordance with the rules of mili- 
tary jurisprudence/' 

As he heard his visitor express himself with complete 
lucidity, and relate a story so probable though so strange, 
the young lawyer ceased fingering the papers, rested his 
left elbow on the table, and with his head on his hand looked 
steadily at the Colonel. 

9. One of Napoleon's most famous marshals. He took part in the 
battle of Eylau. 

10. Napoleon Bonaparte. 



COLONEL CHABERT 83 

"Do you know, Monsieur, that I am lawyer to the Comtesse 
Ferraud," he said, interrupting the speaker, "Colonel Cha- 
bert's widow?" 

"My wife — yes, Monsieur. Therefore, after a hundred 
fruitless attempts to interest lawyers, who have all thought 
me mad, I made up my mind to come to you. I will tell 
you of my misfortunes afterwards ; for the present, allow 
me to prove the facts, explaining rather how things must 
have fallen out rather than how they did occur. Certain 
circumstances, known, I suppose, to no one but the Almighty, 
compel me to speak of some things as hypothetical. The 
wounds I had received must presumably have produced 
tetanus, or have thrown me into a state analogous to that 
of a disease called, I believe, catalepsy. Otherwise how is it 
conceivable that I should have been stripped, as is the cus- 
tom in time of war, and thrown into the common grave by 
the men ordered to bury the dead ? 

"Allow me here to refer to a detail of which I could know 
nothing till after the event, which, after all, I must speak 
of as my death. At Stuttgart, in 1814, I met an old quarter- 
master of my regiment. This dear fellow, the only man 
who chose to recognize me, and of whom I will tell you more 
later, explained the marvel of my preservation, by telling 
me that my horse was shot in the flank at the moment when 
I was wounded. Man and beast went down together, like 
a monk cut out of card-paper. As I fell, to the right or to 
the left, I was no doubt covered by the body of my horse, 
which protected me from being trampled to death or hit by a 
ball. 

"When I came to myself, Monsieur, I was in a position 
and an atmosphere of which I could give you no idea if 
I talked till tomorrow. The little air there was to breathe 
was foul. I wanted to move, and found no room. I opened 
my eyes, and saw nothing. The most alarming circumstance 



84 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

was the lack of air, and this enlightened me as to my situa- 
tion. I understood that no fresh air could penetrate to me, 
and that I must die. This thought took off the sense of 
intolerable pain which had aroused me. There was a violent 
singing in my ears. I heard — or I thought I heard, I will 
assert nothing — groans from the world of dead among whom 
I was lying. Some nights I still think I hear those stifled 
moans ; though the remembrance of that time is very obscure, 
and my memory very indistinct, in spite of my impressions 
of far more acute suffering I was fated to go through, and 
which have confused my ideas. 

"But there was something more awful than cries; there 
was a silence such as I have never known elsewhere — liter- 
ally, the silence of the grave. At last, by raising my hands 
and feeling the dead, I discerned a vacant space between 
my head and the human carrion above. I could thus measure 
the space, granted by a chance of which I knew not the 
cause. It would seem that, thanks to the carelessness and 
the haste with which we had been pitched into the trench, 
two dead bodies had leaned across and against each other, 
forming an angle like that made by two cards when a child 
is building a card castle. Feeling about me at once, for there 
was no time for play, I happily felt an arm lying detached, 
the arm of a Hercules ! A stout bone, to which I owed my 
rescue. But for this unhoped-for help, I must have perished. 
But with a fury you may imagine, I began to work my way 
through the bodies which separated me from the layer of 
earth which had no doubt been thrown over us — I say us, 
as if there had been others living! I worked with a will, 
Monsieur, for here I am! But to this day I do not know 
how I succeeded in getting through the pile of flesh which 
formed a barrier between me and life. You will say I had 
three arms. This crowbar, which I used cleverly enough, 
opened out a little air between the bodies I moved, and I 



COLONEL CHABERT 85 

economized my breath. At last I saw daylight, but through 
snow! 

"At that moment I perceived that my head was cut open. 
Happily my blood, or that of my comrades, or perhaps the 
torn skin of my horse, who knows, had in coagulating formed 
a sort of natural plaster. But, in spite of it, I fainted away 
when my head came into contact with the snow. However, 
the little warmth left in me melted the snow about me; and 
when I re«overed consciousness, I found myself in the mid- 
dle of a round hole, where I stood shouting as long as I 
could. But the sun was rising, so I had very little chance 
of being heard. Was there any one in the fields yet? I 
puHed myself up, using my feet as a spring, resting on one 
of the dead, whose ribs were firm. You may suppose that 
this was not the moment for saying, 'Respect courage in mis- 
fortune !' In short, Monsieur, after enduring the anguish, 
if the word is strong enough for my frenzy of seeing for a 
long time, yes, quite a long time, those cursed Germans fly- 
ing from a voice they heard where they could see no one, I 
was dug out by a woman, who was brave or curious enough 
to come close to my head, which must have looked as though 
it had sprouted from the ground like a mushroom. This 
woman went to fetch her husband, and between them they 
got me to their poor hovel. 

"It would seem that I must have again fallen into a 
catalepsy — allow me to use the word to describe a state of 
which I have no idea, but which, from the account given 
by my hosts, I suppose to have been the effect of that malady. 
I remained for six months between life and death ; not speak- 
ing, or, if I spoke, talking in delirium. At last, my hosts 
got me admitted to the hospital at Heilsberg. 

Six months afterwards, when I remembered, one fine 
morning, that I had been Colonel Chabert, and when, on 
recovering my wits, I tried to exact from my nurse rather 



86 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

more respect than she paid to any poor devil, all my com- 
panions in the ward began to laugh. Luckily for me, the 
surgeon, out of professional pride, had answered for my 
cure, and was naturally interested in his patient. When I 
told him coherently about my former life, this good man, 
named Sparchman, signed a deposition, drawn up in the 
legal form of his country, giving an account of the miraculous 
way in which I had escaped from the trench dug for the 
dead, the day and hour when I had been found by my bene- 
factress and her husband, the nature and exact spot of my 
injuries, adding to these documents a description of my per- 
son. 

"Well, Monsieur, I have neither these important pieces 
of evidence, nor the declaration I made before a notary at 
Heilsberg, with a view to establishing my identity. From 
the day when I was turned out of that town by the events of 
war, I have wandered about like a vagabond, begging my 
bread, treated as a madman when I have told my story, with- 
out ever having found or earned a sou to enable me to recover 
the deeds which would prove my statements, and restore 
me to society. My sufferings have often kept me for six 
months at a time in some little town, where every care was 
taken of the invalid Frenchman, but where he was laughed 
at to his face as soon as he said he was Colonel Chabert. 
For a long time that laughter, those doubts, used to put me 
into rages which did me harm, and which even led to my 
being locked up at Stuttgart as a madman. And, indeed, as 
you may judge from my story, there was ample reason for 
shutting a man up. 

"At the end of two years' detention, which I was com- 
pelled to submit to, after hearing my keepers say a thousand 
times, 'Here is a poor man who thinks he is Colonel Chabert' 
to people who would reply, 'Poor fellow !' I became con- 
vinced of the impossibility of my own adventure. I grew 



COLONEL CHABERT 87 

melancholy, resigned, and quiet, and gave up calling myself 
Colonel Chabert, in order to get out of my prison, and see 
France once more. Oh, Monsieur! To see Paris again was 
a delirium which I " 

Without finishing his sentence, Colonel Chabert fell into 
a deep study, which Derville respected. 

"One fine day/' his'visitor resumed, "one spring day, they 
gave me the key of the fields, as we say, and ten thalers, 11 
admitting that I talked quite sensibly on all subjects, and 
no longer called myself Colonel Chabert. On my honor, at 
that time, and even to this day, sometimes I hate my name. 
I wish I were not myself. The sense of my rights kills me. 
If my illness had but deprived me of all memory of my past 
life, I could be happy. I should have entered the service 
again under any name, no matter what, and should, perhaps, 
have been made Field-Marshal in Austria or Russia. Who 
knows ?" 

"Monsieur," said the attorney, "you have upset all my 
ideas. I feel as if I heard you in a dream. Pause for a 
moment, I beg of you." 

"You are the only person," said the Colonel, with a 
melancholy look, "who ever listened to me so patiently. No 
lawyer has been willing to lend me ten napoleons 12 to enable 
me to procure from Germany the necessary documents to 
begin my lawsuit " 

"What lawsuit?" said the attorney, who had forgotten 
his client's painful position in listening to the narrative of 
his past sufferings. 

"Why, Monsieur, is not the Comtesse Ferraud my wife? 
She has thirty thousand francs a year, which belong to me, 
and she will not give me a sou. When I tell lawyers these 
things — men of sense; when I propose — I, a beggar — to 

11. A thaler is a German silver coin worth about 75 cents. 

12. A napoleon was worth $4.00. 



88 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

bring an action against a Count and Countess; when I — a 
dead man — bring up as against a certificate of death a cer- 
tificate of marriage and registers of births, they show me 
out, either with the air of cold politeness, which you all 
know how to assume to rid yourselves of a hapless wretch, 
or brutally, like men who think they have to deal with a 
swindler or a madman — it depends on their nature. I have 
been buried under the dead ; but now I am buried under the 
living, under papers, under facts, under the whole of society, 
which wants to shove me underground again \" 

'Tray resume your narrative," said Derville. 

"Pray resume it V cried the hapless old man, taking the 
young lawyer's hand. "That is the first polite word I have 
heard since " 

The Colonel wept. Gratitude choked his voice. The 
appealing and unutterable eloquence that lies in the eyes, in 
a gesture, even in silence, entirely convinced Derville, and 
touched him deeply. 

"Listen, Monsieur," said he; "I have this evening won 
three hundred francs at cards. I may very well lay out half 
that sum in making a man happy. I will begin the inquiries 
and researches necessary to obtain the documents of which 
you speak, and until they arrive I will give you five francs 
a day. If you are Colonel Chabert, you will pardon the 
smallness of the loan as coming from a young man who has 
his fortune to make. Proceed. " 

The Colonel, as he called himself, sat for a moment motion- 
less and bewildered; the depth of his woes had no doubt 
destroyed his powers of belief. Though he was eager in 
pursuit of his military distinction, of his fortune, of himself, 
perhaps it was in obedience to the inexplicable feeling, the 
latent germ in every man's heart, to which we owe the 
experiments of alchemists, the passion for glory, the discov- 
eries of astronomy and of physics, everything which prompts 



COLONEL CHABERT 89 

man to expand his being by multiplying himself through 
deeds or ideas. In his mind the Ego was now but a secondary 
object just as the vanity of success or the pleasure of win- 
ning become dearer to the gambler than the object he has 
at stake. The young lawyer's words were as a miracle to 
this man, for ten years repudiated by his wife, by justice, by 
the whole social creation. To find in a lawyer's office the 
ten gold pieces which had so long been refused him by so 
many people, and in so many ways ! The Colonel was like 
the lady who, having been ill of a fever for fifteen years, 
fancied she had some fresh complaint when she was cured. 
There are joys in which we have ceased to believe; they 
fall on us, it is like a thunderbolt ; they burn us. The poor 
man's gratitude was too great to find utterance. To super- 
ficial observers he seemed cold, but Derville saw complete 
honesty under this amazement. A swindler would have 
found his voice. 

"Where was I?" said the Colonel, with the simplicity of 
a child or of a soldier, for there is often something of the 
child in a true soldier, and almost always something of the 
soldier in a child, especially in France. 

"At Stuttgart. You were out of prison," said Derville. 

"You know my wife?" asked the Colonel. 

"Yes," said Derville, with a bow. 

"What is she like?" 

"Still quite charming." 

The old man held up his hand, and seemed to be swal- 
lowing down some secret anguish with the grave and solemn 
resignation that is characteristic of men who have stood the 
ordeal of blood and fire on the battlefield. 

"Monsieur," said he, with a sort of cheerfulness — for he 
breathed again, the poor Colonel ; he had again risen from 
the grave; he had just melted a covering of snow less easily 
thawed than that which had once before frozen his head; 



90 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

and he drew a deep breathy as if he had just escaped from 
a dungeon — "Monsieur, if I had been a handsome young 
fellow, none of my misfortunes would have befallen me. 
Women believe in men when they flavor their speeches with 
the word Love. They hurry then, they come, they go, they 
are everywhere at once; they intrigue, they assert facts, 
they play the very devil for a man who takes their fancy. 
But how could I interest a woman? I had a face like a 
Requiem. 13 I was dressed like a sans-culotte. 1 * I was more 
like an Esquimaux than a Frenchman — I, who had formerly 
been considered one of the smartest of fops in 1799! — I, 
Chabert, Count of the Empire. 

"Well, on the very day when I was turned out into the 
streets like a dog, I met the quartermaster of whom I just 
now spoke. This old soldier's name was Boutin. The poor 
devil and I made the queerest pair of broken-down hacks I 
ever set eyes on. I met him out walking ; but though I recog- 
nized him, he could not possibly guess who I was. We went 
into a tavern together. In there, when I told him my name, 
Boutin's mouth opened from ear to ear in a roar of laughter ; 
like the bursting of a mortar. That mirth, Monsieur, was one 
of the keenest pangs I have known. It told me without dis- 
guise how great were the changes in me ! I was, then, un- 
recognizable even to the humblest and most grateful of my 
former friends ! 

"I had once saved Boutin's life, but it was only the repay- 
ment of a debt I owed him. I need not tell you how he did 
me this service ; it was at Ravenna, in Italy. The house 
where Boutin prevented my being stabbed was not extremely 
respectable. At that time I was not a colonel, but, like 
Boutin himself, a common trooper. Happily there were 
certain details of this adventure which could be known only 

13. lie locked like cne dead, for whom a mass is chanted. 

14. Literally, "without breeches." A name given to the Republican 
extremists of the French Revolution. 



COLONEL CHABERT 91 

to us two, and when I recalled them to his mind his incre- 
dulity diminished. I then told him the story of my singular 
experiences. Although my eyes and my voice, he told me, 
were strangely altered, although I had neither hair, teeth, 
nor eyebrows, and was as colorless as an Albino, he at last 
recognized his Colonel in the beggar, after a thousand ques- 
tions, which I answered triumphantly. 

"He related his adventures ; they were not less extraordi- 
nary than my own; he had lately come back from the fron- 
tiers of China, which he had tried to cross after escaping 
from Siberia. He told me of the catastrophe of the Rus- 
sian campaign, and of Napoleon's first abdication. That 
news was one of the things which caused me most anguish ! 

"We were two curious derelicts, having been rolled over 
the globe as pebbles are rolled by the ocean when storms bear 
them from shore to shore. Between us we had seen Egypt, 
Syria, Spain, Russia, Holland, Germany, Italy and Dal- 
matia, England, China, Tartary, Siberia; the only thing 
wanting was that neither of us had been to America or the 
Indies. Finally, Boutin, who still was more locomotive than 
I, undertook to go to Paris as quickly as might be to inform 
my wife of the predicament in which I was. I wrote a long 
letter full of details to Madame Chabert. That, Monsieur, 
was the fourth ! If I had had any relations, perhaps nothing 
of all this might have happened; but, to be frank with you, 
I am but a workhouse child, a soldier, whose sole fortune 
was his courage, whose sole family, is mankind at large, 
whose country is France, whose only protector is the Al- 
mighty. — Nay, I am wrong ! I had a father — the Emperor ! 
Ah! if he were but here, the dear man! If he could see his 
Chabert, as he used to call me, in the state in which I am 
now, he would be in a rage ! What is to be done ? Our sun 
is set, and we are all out in the cold now. After all, political 
events might account for my wife's silence ! 



92 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"Boutin set out. He was a lucky fellow ! He had two 
bears, admirably trained, which brought him in a living. I 
could not go with him ; the pain I suffered forbade my walk- 
ing long stages. I wept, Monsieur, when we parted, after 
I had gone as far as my state allowed in company with him 
and his bears. At Carlsruhe I had an attack of neuralgia 
in the head, and lay for six weeks on straw in an inn. — I 
should never have ended if I were to tell you all the distresses 
of my life as a beggar. Moral suffering, before which physi- 
cal suffering pales, nevertheless excites less pity, because 
it is not seen. I remember shedding tears, as I stood in 
front of a fine house in Strassburg where I once had given 
an entertainment, and where nothing was given me, not even 
a piece of bread. Having agreed with Boutin on the road 
I was to take, I went to every post-office to ask if there were 
a letter or some money for me. I arrived at Paris without 
having found either. What despair I had been forced to 
endure ! 'Boutin must be dead !' I told myself, and in fact 
the poor fellow was killed at Waterloo. I heard of his 
death later, and by mere chance. His errand to my wife 
had, of course, been fruitless. 

"At last I entered Paris — with the Cossacks. To me this 
was grief on grief. On seeing the Russians in France, I 
quite forgot that I had no shoes on my feet nor money in 
my pocket. Yes, Monsieur, my clothes were in tatters. The 
evening before I reached Paris I was obliged to bivouac in 
the woods of Claye. The chill of the night air no doubt 
brought on an attack of some nameless complaint which 
seized me as I was crossing the Faubourg Saint-Martin. I 
dropped almost senseless, at the door of an ironmonger's 
shop. When I recovered I was in a bed in the Hotel-Dieu. 15 
There I stayed very contentedly for about a month. I was 
then turned out; I had no money, but I was well, and my 

15. A famous hospital in Paris. 



COLONEL CHABERT 93 

feet were on the good stones of Paris. With what delight 
and haste did I make my way to the Rue du Mont-Blanc, 
where my wife should be living in a house belonging to me ! 
Bah ! the Rue du Mont-Blanc was now the Rue de la Chaussee 
d'Antin; I could not find my house; it had been sold and 
pulled down. Speculators had built several houses over my 
gardens. Not knowing that my wife had married M. Ferraud, 
I could obtain no information. 

"At last I went to the house of an old lawyer who had 
been in charge of my affairs. This worthy man was dead, 
after selling his connection to a younger man. This gentle- 
man informed me, to my great surprise, of the administra- 
tion of my estate, the settlement of the moneys, of my wife's 
marriage, and the birth of her two children. When I told 
him that I was Colonel Chabert, he laughed so heartily that 
I left him without saying another word. My detention at 
Stuttgart had suggested possibilities of Charenton, 16 and I 
determined to act with caution. Then, Monsieur, knowing 
where my wife lived, I went to her house, my heart high with 
hope. — Well," said the Colonel, with a gesture of concen- 
trated fury, "when I called under an assumed name I was not 
admitted, and on the day when I used my own I was turned 
out of doors. 

"To see the Countess come home from a ball or the play 
in the early morning, I have sat whole nights through, crouch- 
ing close to the wall of her gateway. My eyes pierced the 
depths of the carriage, which flashed past me with the swift- 
ness of lightning, and I caught a glimpse of the woman who 
is my wife and no longer mine. Oh, from that day I have 
lived for vengeance !" cried the old man in a hollow voice, 
and suddenly standing up in front of Derville. "She knows 
that I am alive; since my return she has had two letters 
written with my own hand. She loves me no more! — I — I 

16. An insane asylum near Paris. 



94 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

know not whether I love or hate her. I long for her and 
curse her by turns. To me she owes all her fortune, all 
her happiness; well, she has not sent me the very smallest 
pittance. Sometimes I do not know what will become of 
me! 

With these words the veteran dropped on to his chair 
again and remained motionless. Derville sat in silence, 
studying his client. 

"It is a serious business/' he said at length, mechanically. 
"Even granting the genuineness of the documents to be pro- 
cured from Heilsberg, it is not proved to me that we can at 
once win our case. It must go before three tribunals in suc- 
cession. I must think such a matter over with a clear head ; 
it is quite exceptional/' 

"Oh," said the Colonel, coldly, with a haughty jerk of 
his head, "if I fail, I can die — but not alone." 

The feeble old man had vanished. The eyes were those 
of a man of energy, lighted up with the spark of desire and 
revenge. 

"We must perhaps compromise," said the lawyer. 

"Compromise !" echoed Colonel Chabert. "Am I dead, or 
am I alive?" 

"I hope, Monsieur," the attorney went on, "that you will 
follow my advice. Your cause is mine. You will soon per- 
ceive the interest I take in your situation, almost unexampled 
in judicial records. For the moment I will give you a letter 
to my notary, who will pay you to your order fifty francs 
every ten days. It would be unbecoming for you to come 
here to receive alms. If you are Colonel Chabert, you ought 
to be at no man's mercy. I shall regard these advances as a 
loan; you have estates to recover; you are rich." 

This delicate compassion brought tears to the old man's 
eyes. Derville rose hastily, for it was perhaps not correct 
for a lawyer to show emotion; he went into the adjoining 



COLONEL CHABERT 95 

room, and came back with an unsealed letter, which he gave 
to the Colonel. When the poor man held it in his hand, he 
felt through the paper two gold pieces. 

"Will you be good enough to describe the documents, and 
tell me the name of the town, and in what kingdom ?" said 
the lawyer. 

The Colonel dictated the information, and verified the 
spelling of the names of places ; then he took his hat in one 
hand, looked at Derville, and held out the other — a horny 
hand, saying with much simplicity — 

"On my honor, sir, after the Emperor, you are the man 
to whom I shall owe most. You are a splendid fellow I" 

The attorney clapped his hand into the Colonel's, saw him 
to the stairs, and held a light for him. 

"Boucard," said Derville to his head clerk, "I have just 
listened to a tale that may cost me five-and-twenty louis. 17 
If I am robbed, I shall not regret the money, for I shall 
have seen the most consummate actor of the day." 

When the Colonel was in the street and close to a lamp, 
he took the two twenty-franc pieces out of the letter and 
looked at them for a moment under the light. It was the 
first gold he had seen for nine years. 

"I may smoke cigars !" he said to himself. 

About three months after this interview, at night, in 
Derville's room, the notary commissioned to advance the half- 
pay on Derville's account to his eccentric client, came to 
consult the attorney on a serious matter, and began by beg- 
ging him to refund the six hundred francs that the old soldier 
had received. 

"Are you amusing yourself with pensioning the old army ?" 
said the notary, laughing — a young man named Crottat, who 
had just bought up the office in which he had been head 

17. A louis is a gold coin worth $4.00. 



96 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

clerk, his chief having fled in consequence of a disastrous 
bankruptcy. 

"I have to thank you, my dear sir, for reminding me of 
that affair/' replied Derville. "My philanthropy will not 
carry me beyond twenty-five louis; I have, I fear, already 
been the dupe of my patriotism. ,, 

"As Derville finished the sentence, he saw on his desk 
the papers his head clerk had laid out for him. His eye was 
struck by the appearance of the stamps — long, square, and 
triangular, in red and blue ink, which distinguished a letter 
that had come through the Prussian, Austrian, Bavarian, and 
French postofEces. 

"Ah ha I" said he with a laugh, "here is the last act of the 
comedy ; now we shall see if I have been taken in !" 

He took up the letter and opened it; but he could not read 
it; it was written in German. 

"Boucard, go yourself and have this letter translated, 
and bring it back immediately/ ' said Derville, half opening 
his study door, and giving the letter to the head clerk. 

The notary at Berlin, to whom the lawyer had written, 
informed him that the documents he had been requested to 
forward would arrive within a few days of this note an- 
nouncing them. They were, he said, all perfectly regular 
and duly witnessed, and legally stamped to serve as evidence 
in law. He also informed him that almost all the witnesses 
to the facts recorded under these affidavits were still to be 
found at Eylau, in Prussia, and that the woman to whom 
M. le Comte Chabert owed his life was still living in a 
suburb of Heilsberg. 

"This looks like business," cried Derville, when Boucard 
had given him the substance of the letter. "But look here, 
my boy," he went on, addressing the notary, "I shall want 
some information which ought to exist in your office. Was 
it not that old rascal Roguin ?" 



COLONEL CHABERT 97 

"We will say that unfortunate, that ill-used Roguin," 
interrupted Alexandre Crottat with a laugh. 

"Well, was it not that ill-used man who has just carried 
off eight hundred thousand francs of his clients' money, and 
reduced several families to despair, who effected the settle- 
ment of Chabert's estate? I fancy I have seen that in the 
documents in our case of Ferraud." 

"Yes/' said Crottat. "It was when I was third clerk; I 
copied the papers and studied them thoroughly. Rose 
Chapotel, wife and widow of Hyacinthe, called Chabert, 
Count of the Empire, grand officer of the Legion of Honor. 
They had married without settlement; thus, they held all 
the property in common. To the best of my recollection, the 
personalty was about six hundred thousand francs. Before 
his marriage, Comte Chabert had made a will in favor of 
the hospitals of Paris, by which he left them one-quarter of 
the fortune he might possess at the time of his decease, the 
State to take the other quarter. The will was contested, 
there was a forced sale, and then a division, for the attorneys 
went at a pace. At the time of the settlement the monster 
who was then governing France handed over to the widow, 
by special decree, the portion bequeathed to the treasury/' 

"So that Comte Chabert' s personal fortune was no more 
than three hundred thousand francs ?" 

"Consequently so it was, old fellow !" said Crottat. "You 
lawyers sometimes are very clear-headed, though you are 
accused of false practices in pleading for one side or the 
other/ ' 

Colonel Chabert, whose address was written at the bottom 
of the first receipt he had given the notary, was lodging in 
the Faubourg Saint-Marceau, Rue du Petit-Banquier, with 
an old quartermaster of the Imperial Guard, now a cow- 
keeper, named Vergniaud. Having reached the spot, Der- 
ville was obliged to go on foot in search of his client, for 



98 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

his coachman declined to drive along an unpaved street, 
where the ruts were rather too deep for cab wheels. Looking 
about him on all sides, the lawyer at last discovered at the 
end of the street nearest to the boulevard, between two walls 
built of bones and mud, two shabby stone gate-posts, much 
knocked about by carts, in spite of two wooden stumps that 
served as blocks. These posts supported a cross beam with 
a pent-house coping of tiles, and on the beam, in red letters, 
were the words, "Vergniaud, dairyman." To the right of 
this inscription were some eggs, to the left a cow, all painted 
in white. The gate was open, and no doubt remained open 
all day. Beyond a good-sized yard there was a house facing 
the gate, if indeed the name of house may be applied to one 
of the hovels built in the neighborhood of Paris, which are 
like nothing else, not even the most wretched dwellings 
in the country, of which they have all the poverty without 
their poetry. 

Indeed, in the midst of fields, even a hovel may have 
a certain grace derived from the pure air, the verdure, the 
open country — a hill, a serpentine road, vineyards, quick- 
set hedges, moss-grown thatch and rural implements ; but 
poverty in Paris gains dignity only by horror. Though 
recently built, this house seemed ready to fall into ruins. 
None of its materials had found a legitimate use; they had 
been collected from the various demolitions which are going 
on every day in Paris. On a shutter made of the boards of 
a shop-sign Derville read the words, "Fancy Goods/' The 
windows were all mismatched and grotesquely placed. The 
ground floor, which seemed to be the habitable part, was 
on one side raised above the soil, and on the other sunk in 
the rising ground. Between the gate and the house lay a 
puddle full of stable litter, into which flowed the rain-water 
and house waste. The back wall of this frail construction, 
which seemed rather more solidly built than the rest, sup- 



COLONEL CHABERT 99 

ported a row of barred hutches, where rabbits bred their 
numerous families. To the right of the gate was the cow- 
house, with a loft above for fodder; it communicated with 
the house through the dairy. To the left was a poultry yard, 
with a stable and pig-styes, the roofs finished, like that of 
the house, with rough deal boards nailed so as to overlap, and 
shabbily thatched with rushes. 

Like most of the places where the elements of the huge 
meal daily devoured by Paris are every day prepared, the 
yard Derville now entered showed traces of the hurry that 
comes of the necessity for being ready at a fixed hour. The 
large pot-bellied tin cans in which milk is carried, and the 
little pots for cream, were flung pell-mell at the dairy door, 
with their linen-covered stoppers. The rags that were used 
to clean them, fluttered in the sunshine, riddled with holes, 
hanging to strings fastened to poles. The placid horse, of a 
breed known only to milk-women, had gone a few steps from 
the cart, and was standing in front of the stable, the door 
being shut. A goat was munching the shoots of a starved 
and dusty vine that clung to the cracked yellow wall of the 
house. A cat, squatting on the cream j ars, was licking them 
over. The fowls, scared by Derville's approach, scuttered 
away screaming, and the watch-dog barked. 

"And the man who decided the victory at Eylau is to be 
found here !" said Derville to himself, as his eyes took in at 
a glance the general effect of the squalid scene. 

The house had been left in charge of three little boys. 
One, who had climbed to the top of a cart loaded with hay, 
was pitching stones into the chimney of a neighboring house, 
in the hope that they might fall into a saucepan ; another was 
trying to get a pig into a cart by the back board, which 
rested on the ground; while the third, hanging on in front, 
was waiting till the pig had got into the cart, to hoist it by 
making the whole thing tilt. When Derville asked them if 



100 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

M. Chabert lived there,, neither of them replied, but all three 
looked at him with a sort of bright stupidity, if I may com- 
bine those two words. Derville repeated his questions, but 
without success. Provoked by the saucy cunning of these 
three imps, he abused them with the sort of pleasantry which 
young men think they have a right to address to little boys, 
and they broke the silence with a horse-laugh. Then Der- 
ville was angry. 

The Colonel, hearing him, now came out of a little low 
room, close to the dairy, and stood on the threshold of his 
doorway with indescribable military coolness. He had in 
his mouth a very finely colored pipe — a technical phrase to a 
smoker — a humble, short clay pipe of the kind called "briile- 
gueule" He lifted the peak of a dreadfully greasy cloth 
cap, saw Derville, and came straight across the midden to 
join his benefactor the sooner, calling out in friendly tones 
to the boys — 

"Silence in the ranks \" 

The children at once kept a respectful silence, which 
showed the power the old soldier had over them. 

"Why did you not write to me?" he said to Derville. "Go 
along by the cowhouse! There — the path is paved there," 
he exclaimed, seeing the lawyer's hesitancy, for he did not 
wish to wet his feet in the manure heap. 

Jumping from one dry spot to another, Derville reached 
the door by which the Colonel had come out. Chabert seemed 
but ill pleased at having to receive him in the bedroom he 
occupied; and, in fact, Derville found but one chair there. 
The Colonel's bed consisted of some trusses of straw, over 
which his hostess had spread two or three of those old frag- 
ments of carpet, picked up heaven knows where, which milk- 
women use to cover the seats of their carts. The floor was 
simply the trodden earth. The walls, sweating saltpetre, 
green with mold, and full of cracks, were so excessively 



COLONEL CHABERT 101 

damp that on the side where the Colonel's bed was a reed 
mat had been nailed. The famous box-coat hung on a nail. 
Two pairs of old boots lay in a corner. There was not a sign 
of linen. On the worm-eaten table the Bulletins de la Grande 
Armee, reprinted by Plancher, lay open, and seemed to be the 
Colonel's reading; his countenance was calm and serene in 
the midst of this squalor. His visit to Derville seemed to 
have altered his features ; the lawyer perceived in them traces 
of a happy feelings a particular gleam set there by hope. 

"Does the smell of a pipe annoy you?" he said, placing 
the dilapidated straw-bottomed chair for his lawyer. 

"But, Colonel, you are dreadfully uncomfortable here !" 

The speech was wrung from Derville by the distrust 
natural to lawyers, and the deplorable experience which 
they derive early in life from the appalling and obscure 
tragedies at which they look on. 

"Here/' said he to himself, "is a man who has of course 
spent my money in satisfying a trooper's three theological 
virtues — play, wine, and women !" 

"To be sure, Monsieur, we are not distinguished for 
luxury here. It is a camp lodging, tempered by friendship, 

but " And the soldier shot a deep glance at the man 

of law — "I have done no one wrong, I have never turned my 
back on anybody, and I sleep in peace." 

Derville reflected that there would be some want of deli- 
cacy in asking his client to account for the sums of money 
he had advanced, so he merely said — 

"But why would you not come to Paris, where you might 
have lived as cheaply as you do here, but where you would 
have been better lodged?" 

"Why," replied the Colonel, "the good folks with whom I 
am living had taken me in and fed me gratis for a year. How 
could I leave them just when I had a little money. Besides, 
the father of those three pickles is an old Egyptian 



102 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"An Egyptian !" 

"We give that name to the troopers who came back from 
the expedition into Egypt, of which I was one. Not merely 
are all who got back brothers ; Vergniaud was in my regi- 
ment. We have shared a draught of water in the desert; 
and besides, I have not yet finished teaching his brats to 
read/' 

"He might have lodged you better for your money/' said 
Derville. 

"Bah !" said the Colonel, "his children sleep on the straw 
as I do. He and his wife have no better bed ; they are very 
poor, you see. They have taken a bigger business than they 
can manage. But if I recover my fortune . . . However, it 
does very well." 

"Colonel, tomorrow, or next day, I shall receive your 
papers from Heilsberg. The woman who dug you out is still 
alive !" 

"Curse the money ! To think I haven't got any !" he cried, 
flinging his pipe on the ground. 

Now, a well-colored pipe is to a smoker a precious posses- 
sion ; but the impulse was so natural, the emotion so generous, 
that every smoker, and the excise office itself, would have 
pardoned this crime of treason to tobacco. Perhaps the 
angels may have picked up the pieces. 

"Colonel, it is an exceedingly complicated business," said 
Derville as they left the room to walk up and down in the 
sunshine. 

"To me," said the soldier, "it appears exceedingly simple. 
I was thought to be dead, and here I am ! Give me back my 
wife and my fortune ; give me the rank of General, to which 
I have a right, for I was made Colonel of the Imperial Guard 
the day before the battle of Eylau." 

"Things are not done so in the legal world," said Derville. 
"Listen to me. You are Colonel Chabert, I am glad to think 



COLONEL CHABERT 103 

it; but it has to be proved j udicially to persons whose interest 
it will be to deny it. Hence, your papers will be disputed. 
That contention will give rise to ten or twelve preliminary 
inquiries. Every question will be sent under contradiction up 
to the supreme court, and give rise to so many costly suits, 
which will hang on for a long time, however eagerly I may 
push them. Your opponents will demand an inquiry, which 
we can not refuse, and which may necessitate the sending 
of a commission of investigation to Prussia. But even if we 
hope for the best; supposing that justice should at once 
recognize you as Colonel Chabert — can we know how the 
questions will be settled that will arise out of the very inno- 
cent bigamy committed by the Comtesse Ferraud? 

"In your case, the point of law is unknown to the Code, 
and can only be decided as a point in equity, as a jury decides 
in the delicate cases presented by the social eccentricities of 
some criminal prosecutions. Now, you had no children by 
your marriage; M. le Comte Ferraud has two. The judges 
might pronounce against the marriage where the family ties 
are weakest, to the confirmation of that where .they are 
stronger, since it was contracted in perfect good faith. Would 
you be in a very becoming moral position if you insisted, at 
your age, and in your present circumstances, in resuming 
your rights over a woman who no longer loves you? You 
will have both your wife and her husband against you, two 
important persons who might influence the Bench. Thus, 
there are many elements which would prolong the case ; you 
will have time to grow old in the bitterest regrets." 
"And my fortune ?" 

"Do you suppose you had a fine fortune ?" 
"Had I not thirty thousand francs a year?" 
"My dear Colonel, in 1799 you made a will before your 
marriage, leaving one-quarter of your property to hospitals." 
"That is true." 



104 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"Well, when you were reported dead, it was necessary to 
make a valuation, and have a sale, to give this quarter away. 
Your wife was not particular about honesty to the poor. The 
valuation, in which she no doubt took care not to include 
the ready money or jewelry, or too much of the plate, and 
in which the furniture would be estimated at two-thirds of 
its actual cost, either to benefit her, or to lighten the succes- 
sion duty, and also because a valuer can be held responsible 
for the declared value — the valuation thus made stood at 
six hundred thousand francs. Your wife had a right to half 
for her share. Everything was sold and bought in by her; 
she got something out of it all, and the hospitals got their 
seventy-five thousand francs. Then, as the remainder went 
to the State, since you had made no mention of your v/ife 
in your will, the Emperor restored to your widow by decree 
the residue which would have reverted to the Exchequer. So, 
now, what can you claim? Three hundred thousand francs, 
no more, and minus the costs." 

"And you call that justice !" said the Colonel, in dismay. 

"Why,, certainly " 

"A pretty kind of justice!" 

"So it is, my dear Colonel. You see, that what you thought 
so easy is not so. Madame Ferraud might even choose to 
keep the sum given to her by the Emperor." 

"But she was not a widow. The decree is utterly void " 

"I agree with you. But every case can get a hearing. 
Listen to me. I think that under these circumstances a com- 
promise would be both for her and for you the best solution 
of the question. You will gain by it a more considerable 
sum than you can prove a right to." 

"That would be to sell my wife !" 

"With twenty-four thousand francs a year you could find 
a woman who, in the position in which you are, would suit 
you better than your own wife, and make you happier. I 



COLONEL CHABERT 105 

propose going this very day to see the Comtesse Ferraud 
and sounding the ground ; but I would not take such a step 
without giving you due notice/ ' 

"Let us go together.'' 

"What, just as you are?" said the lawyer. "No, my 
dear Colonel, no. You might lose your case on the spot." 

"Can I possibly gain it?" 

"On every count," replied Derville. "But, my dear Colonel 
Chabert, you overlook one thing. I am not rich; the price 
of my connection is not wholly paid up. If the bench should 
allow you a maintenance, that is to say, a sum advanced on 
your prospects, they will not do so till you have proved that 
you are Comte Chabert, grand officer of the Legion of 
Honor." 

"To be sure, I am a grand officer of the Legion of Honor; 
I had forgotten that," said he simply. 

"Well, until then," Derville went on, "will you not have 
to engage pleaders, to have documents copied, to keep the 
underlings of the law going, and to support yourself? The 
expenses of the preliminary inquiries will, at a rough guess, 
amount to ten or twelve thousand francs. I have not so 
much to lend you — I am crushed as it is by the enormous 
interest I have to pay on the money I borrowed to buy my 
business; and you? — Where can you find it?" 

Large tears gathered in the poor veteran's faded eyes, 
and rolled down his withered cheeks. This outlook of diffi- 
culties discouraged him. The social and the legal world 
weighed on his breast like a nightmare. 

"I will go to the foot of the Vendome 18 column !" he cried. 
"I will call out: I am Colonel Chabert who rode through the 
Russian square at Eylau! — The statue — he — he will know 
me." 

18. A column in the Place Vendome, Paris, erected by Napoleon in 
honor of his army. 



106 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"And you will find yourself in Charenton." 

At this terrible name the soldier's transports collapsed. 

"And will there be no hope for me at the Ministry of 
War?" 

"The war office !" said Derville. "Well, go there; but 
take a formal legal opinion with you, nullifying the certifi- 
cate of your death. The government offices would be only 
too glad if they could annihilate the men of the Empire. " 

The Colonel stood for a while, speechless, motionless, his 
eyes fixed, but seeing nothing, sunk in bottomless despair. 
Military justice is ready and swift; it decides with Turk- 
like finality, and almost always rightly. This was the only 
justice known to Chabert. As he saw the labyrinth of diffi- 
culties into which he must plunge, and how much money 
would be required for the journey, the poor old soldier was 
mortally hit in that power peculiar to man, and called the 
Will. He thought it would be impossible to live as party 
to a lawsuit; it seemed a thousand times simpler to remain 
poor and a beggar, or to enlist as a trooper if any regiment 
would pass him. 

His physical and mental sufferings had already impaired 
his bodily health in some of the most important organs. He 
was on the verge of one of those maladies for which medi- 
cine has no name, and of which the seat is in some degree 
variable, like the nervous system itself, the part most fre- 
quently attacked of the whole human machine — a malady 
which may be designated as the heart-sickness of the unfortu- 
nate. However serious this invisible but real disorder might 
already be, it could still be cured by a happy issue. But a 
fresh obstacle, an unexpected incident, would be enough to 
wreck this vigorous constitution, to break the weakened 
springs, and produce the hesitancy, the aimless, unfinished 
movements, which physiologists know well in men under- 
mined by grief. 



COLONEL CHABERT 107 

Derville, detecting in his client the symptoms of extreme 
dejection^ said to him — 

"Take courage; the end of the business can not fail to 
be in your favor. Only, consider whether you can give me 
your whole confidence and blindly accept the result I may 
think best for your interests/' 

"Do what you will/' said Chabert. 

"Yes, but you surrender yourself to me like a man march- 
ing to his death." 

"Must I not be left to live without a position, without a 
name ? Is that endurable ?" 

"That is not my view of it/' said the lawyer. "We will 
try a friendly suit, to annul both your death certificate and 
your marriage, so as to put you in possession of your rights. 
You may even, by Comte Ferraud's intervention, have your 
name replaced on the army list as general, and no doubt you 
will get a pension." 

"Well; proceed then/' said Chabert. "I put myself entirely 
in your hands/' 

"I will send you a power of attorney to sign/' said Der- 
ville. "Good-bye. Keep up your courage. If you want 
money , rely on me." 

Chabert warmly wrung the lawyer's hand, and remained 
standing with his back against the wall, not having the 
energy to follow him excepting with his eyes. Like all men 
who know but little of legal matters, he was frightened by 
this unforeseen struggle. 

During their interview, several times, the figure of a man 
posted in the street had come forward from behind one of 
the gate-pillars, watching for Derville to depart, and he 
now accosted the lawyer. He was an old man, wearing a 
blue waistcoat and a white-pleated kilt, like a brewer's; on 
his head was an otter-skin cap. His face was tanned, hollow- 



108 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

cheeked_, and wrinkled,, but ruddy on the cheekbones by hard 
work and exposure to the open air. 

"Asking your pardon, sir/' said he, taking Derville by 
the arm, "if I take the liberty of speaking to you. But I 
fancied, from the look of you, that you were a friend of our 
General's." 

"And what then?" replied Derville. "What concern have 
you with him? — But who are you?" said the cautious lawyer. 

"I am Louis Vergniaud," he at once replied. "I have two 
words to say to you." 

"So you are the man who has lodged Comte Chabert as I 
have found him?" 

"Asking your pardon, sir, he has the best room. I would 
have given mine if I had had but one; I could have slept 
in the stable. A man who has suffered as he has, who teaches 
my kids to read, a general, an Egyptian, the first lieutenant 
I ever served under — What do you think? — Of us all, he is 
best served. I shared what I had with him. Unfortunately, 
it is not much to boast of — bread, milk, eggs. Well, well; 
it's neighbor's fare, sir. And he is heartily welcome. — But 
he has hurt our feelings." 

"He?" 

"Yes, sir, hurt our feelings. To be plain with you, I 
have taken a larger business than I can manage, and he saw 
it. Well, it worried him ; he must needs mind the horse ! I 

says to him, 'Really, General ' Bah! says he, 'I am not 

going to eat my head off doing nothing. I learned to rub a 
horse down many a year ago. I had some bills out for the 
purchase money of my dairy — a fellow named Grados — Do 
you know him, sir?" 

"But, my good man, I have not time to listen to your story. 
Only tell me how the Colonel offended you." 

"He hurt our feelings, sir, as sure as my name is Louis 
Vergniaud, and my wife cried about it- He heard from our 



COLONEL CHABERT 109 

neighbors that we had not a sou to begin to meet the bills 
with. The old soldier, as he is, he saved up all you gave 
him, he watched for the bill to come in, and he paid it. Such 
a trick ! While my wife and me, we knew he had no tobacco, 
poor old boy, and went without. — Oh ! now — yes, he has his 
cigar every morning ! I would sell my soul for it — No, we 
are hurt. Well, so I wanted to ask you — for he said you 
were a good sort — to lend us a hundred crowns 19 on the 
stock, so that we may get him some clothes, and furnish his 
room. He thought he was getting us out of debt, you see? 
Well, it's just the other way; the old man is running us into 
debt — and hurt our feelings — He ought not to have stolen 
a march on us like that. And we his friends, too ! — On my 
word as an honest man, as sure as my name is Louis Verg- 
niaud, I would sooner sell up and enlist than fail to pay you 
back your money " 

Derville looked at the dairyman, and stepped back a few 
paces to glance at the house, the yard, the manure-pool, the 
cowhouse, the rabbits, the children. 

"On my honor, I believe it is characteristic of virtue to 
have nothing to do with riches I" thought he. 

"All right, you shall have your hundred crowns, and 
more. But I shall not give them to you; the Colonel will 
be rich enough to help, and I will not deprive him of the 
pleasure/' 

"And will that be soon?" 

"Why, yes." 

"Ah, dear God ! how glad my wife will be !" and the cow- 
keeper's tanned face seemed to expand. 

"Now," said Derville to himself, as he got into his cab 
again, "let us call on our opponent. We must not show our 
hand, but try to see hers, and win the game at one stroke. 
She must be frightened. She is a woman. Now, what 

19. The French crown of the 18th century was worth about $1.12. 



HO FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

frightens women most? A woman is afraid of nothing 
but . . ." 

And he set to work to study the Countess's position, falling 
into one of those brown studies to which great politicians 
give themselves up when concocting their own plans and try- 
ing to guess the secrets of a hostile Cabinet. Are not attor- 
neys^ in a way, statesman in charge of private affairs? 

But a brief survey of the situation in which the Comte 
Ferraud and his wife now found themselves is necessary for 
a comprehension of the lawyer's cleverness. 

Monsieur le Comte Ferraud was the only son of a former 
Councillor in the old Parlement of Paris, who had emigrated 
during the Reign of Terror/ and so, though he saved his 
head, lost his fortune. He came back under the Consulate, 
and remained persistently faithful to the cause of Louis 
XVIII, in whose circle his father had moved before the Revo- 
lution. He thus was one of the party in the Faubourg Saint- 
Germain which nobly stood out against Napoleon's blandish- 
ments. The reputation for capacity gained by young Count 
— then simply called Monsieur Ferraud — made him the ob- 
ject of the Emperor's advances, for he was often as well 
pleased at his conquests among the aristocracy as at gaining 
a battle. The Count was promised the restitution of his 
title, of such of his estates as had not been sold, and he was 
shown in perspective a place in the ministry or as senator. 

The Emperor fell. 

At the time of Comte Chabert's death, M. Ferraud was a 
young man of six-and-twenty, without fortune, of pleasing 
appearance, who had had his successes, and whom the Fau- 
bourg Saint-Germain had adopted as doing it credit; but 
Madame la Comtesse Chabert had managed to turn her share 
of her husband's fortune to such good account that, after 

20. That period of the French Revolution when the faction in power 
made it a principle to execute every one considered hostile to their 
rule. It lasted from March, 1793, to the fall of Robespierre in 1794. 



COLONEL CHABERT HI 

eighteen months of widowhood, she had about forty thousand 
francs a year. Her marriage to the young Count was not 
regarded as news in the circles of the Faubourg Saint-Ger- 
main. Napoleon, approving of this union, which carried out 
his idea of fusion, restored to Madame Chabert the money 
falling to the Exchequer under her husband's will; but Na- 
poleon's hopes were again disappointed. Madame Ferraud 
was not only in love with her lover; she had also been fas- 
cinated by the notion of getting into the haughty society 
which, in spite of its humiliation, was still predominant at the 
Imperial Court. By this marriage all her Vanities were as 
much gratified as her passions. She was to become a real 
fine lady. When the Faubourg Saint-Germain understood 
that the young Count's marriage did not mean desertion, its 
drawing-rooms were thrown open to his wife. 

Then came the Restoration. The Count's political ad- 
vancement was not rapid. He understood the exigencies of 
the situation in which Louis XVIII found himself; he was 
one of the inner circle who waited till the "Gulf of Revolu- 
tion should be closed" — for this phrase of the King's, at 
which the Liberals laughed so heartily, had a political sense. 
The order quoted in the long lawyer's preamble at the be- 
ginning of this story had, however, put him in possession of 
two tracts of forest, and of an estate which had considerably 
increased in value during its sequestration. At the present 
moment, though Comte Ferraud was a Councillor of State, 
and a Director-General, he regarded his position as merely 
the first step of his political career. 

Wholly occupied as he was by the anxieties of consuming 
ambition, he had attached to himself, as secretary, a ruined 
attorney named Delbecq, a more than clever man, versed 
in all the resources of the law, to whom he left the conduct of 
his private affairs. This shrewd practitioner had so well 
understood his position with the Count as to be honest in his 



112 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

own interest. He hoped to get some place by his master's 
influence, and he made the Count's fortune his first care. His 
conduct so effectually gave the lie to his former life, that he 
was regarded as a slandered man. The Countess, with the 
tact and shrewdness of which most women have a share more 
or less, understood the man's motives, watched him quietly, 
and managed him so well, that she had made good use of him 
for the augmentation of her private fortune. She had con- 
trived to make Delbecq believe that she ruled her husband, 
and had promised to get him appointed President of an 
inferior Court ifi some important provincial town, if he de- 
voted himself entirely to her interests. 

The promise of a place, not dependent on changes of 
ministry, which would allow of his marrying advantageously, 
and rising subsequently to a high political position, by being 
chosen Depute, made Delbecq the Countess's abject slave. 
He had never allowed her to miss one of those favorable 
chances which the fluctuations of the Bourse and the in- 
creased value of property afforded to clever financiers in 
Paris during the first three years after the Restoration. He 
had trebled his protectress's capital, and all the more easily 
because the Countess had no scruples as to the means which 
might make her an enormous fortune as quickly as possible. 
The emoluments derived by the Count from the places he 
held she spent on the housekeeping, so as to reinvest her 
dividends ; and Delbecq lent himself to these calculations of 
avarice without trying to account for her motives. People 
of that sort never trouble themselves about any secrets of 
which the discovery is not necessary to their own interests. 
And, indeed, he naturally found the reason in the thirst for 
money, which taints almost every Parisian woman; and as 
a fine fortune was needed to support the pretensions of 
Comte Ferraudj the secretary sometimes fancied that he saw 
in the Countess's greed a consequence of her devotion to a 



COLONEL CHABERT 113 

husband with whom she still was in love. The Countess 
buried the secrets of her conduct at the bottom of her heart. 
There lay the secrets of life and death to her, there lay the 
turning-point of this history. 

At the beginning of the year 1818 the Restoration was 
settled on an apparently immovable foundation; its doc- 
trines of government, as understood by lofty minds, seemed 
calculated to bring to France an era of renewed prosperity, 
and Parisian society changed its aspect. Madame la Comtesse 
Ferraud found that by chance she had achieved for love q 
marriage that had brought her fortune and gratified ambition. 
Still young and handsome, Madame Ferraud played the part 
of a woman of fashion, and lived in the atmosphere of the 
Court. Rich herself, with a rich husband who was cried up 
as one of the ablest men of the royalist party, and, as a 
friend of the King, certain to be made Minister, she belonged 
to the aristocracy, and shared its magnificence. In the midst 
of this triumph she was attacked by a moral canker. There 
are feelings which women guess in spite of the care men take 
to bury them. On the first return of the King, Comte Fer- 
raud had begun to regret his marriage. Colonel Chabert's 
widow had not been the means of allying him to anybody; 
he was alone and unsupported in steering his way in a course 
full of shoals and beset by enemies. Also, perhaps, when 
he came to judge his wife coolly, he may have discerned in 
her certain vices of education which made her unfit to second 
him in his schemes. 

A speech he made, a propos of Talleyrand's 21 marriage, 
enlightened the Countess, to whom it proved that if he had 
still been a free man she would never have been Madame 
Ferraud. What woman could forgive this repentance? Does 
it not include the germs of every insult, every crime, every 
form of repudiation? But what a wound must it have left 

21. A famous French statesman, 1754-1838. 



114 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

in the Countess's heart, supposing that she lived in the dread 
of her first husband's return? She had known that he still 
lived, and she had ignored him. Then during the time when 
she had heard no more of him, she had chosen to believe 
that he had fallen at Waterloo with the Imperial Eagle, at 
the same time as Boutin. She resolved, nevertheless, to bind 
the Count to her by the strongest of all ties, by a chain of 
gold, and vowed to be so rich that her fortune might make 
her second marriage indissoluble, if by chance Colonel 
Chabert should ever reappear. And he had reappeared; and 
she could not explain to herself why the struggle she dreaded 
had not already begun. Suffering, sickness, had perhaps 
delivered her from that man. Perhaps he was half mad, 
and Charenton might yet do her justice. She had not chosen 
to take either Delbecq or the police into her confidence, for 
fear of putting herself in their power, or of hastening the 
catastrophe. There are in Paris many women who, like the 
Countess Ferraud, live with an unknown moral monster, or 
on the brink of an abyss; a callus forms over the spot that 
tortures them, and they can still laugh and enjoy them- 
selves. 

"There is something very strange in Comte Ferraud's 
position," said Derville to himself, on emerging from his 
long reverie, as his cab stopped at the door of the Hotel 
Ferraud in the Rue de Varennes. "How is it that he, so rich 
as he is, and such a favorite with the King, is not yet a peer 
of France? It may, to be sure, be true that the King, as 
Mme. de Grandlieu was telling me, desires to keep up the 
value of the pairie 22 by not bestowing it right and left. And, 
after all, the son of a Councillor of the Parlement is not a 
Crillon nor a Rohan. 23 A Comte Ferraud can only get into 
the Upper Chamber surreptitiously. But if his marriage 

22. The name of the rank formerly given to a member of the Upper 
Chamber. 

23. Two French generals of the 16th and 17th centuries. 



COLONEL CHABERT 115 

were annulled, could he not get the dignity of some old peer 
who has only daughters transferred to himself, to the King's 
great satisfaction? At any rate this will be a good bogey to 
put forward and frighten the Countess/' thought he as he 
went up the steps. 

Derville had without knowing it laid his finger on the 
hidden wound, put his hand on the canker that consumed 
Madame Ferraud. 

She received him in a pretty winter dining-room, where 
she was at breakfast, while playing with a monkey tethered 
by a chain to a little pole with climbing bars of iron. The 
Countess was in an elegant wrapper; the curls of her hair, 
carelessly pinned up, escaped from a cap, giving her an 
arch look. She was fresh and smiling. Silver, gilding, and 
mother-of-pearl shone on the table, and all about the room 
were rare plants growing in magnificent china jars. As he 
saw Colonel Chabert's wife, rich with his spoil, in the lap of 
luxury and the height of fashion, while he, poor wretch, was 
living with a poor dairyman among the beasts, the lawyer 
said to himself — 

"The moral of all this is that a pretty woman will never 
acknowledge as her husband, nor even as a lover, a man in 
an old box-coat, a tow wig, and boots with holes in them. ,, 

A mischievous and bitter smile expressed the feelings, half 
philosophical and half satirical, which such a man was cer- 
tain to experience^a man well situated to know the truth 
of things in spite of the lies behind which most families in 
Paris hide their mode of life. 

"Good morning, Monsieur Derville," said she, giving the 
monkey some coffee to drink. 

"Madame/' said he, a little sharply, for the light tone in 
which she spoke jarred on him, "I have come to speak with 
you on a very serious matter." 

"I am so grieved, M. le Comte is away " 



116 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"I, Madame, am delighted. It would be grievous if he 
could be present at our interview. Besides, I am informed 
through M. Delbecq that you like to manage your own busi- 
ness without troubling the Count/' 

"Then I will send for Delbecq/' said she. 

"He would be of no use to you, clever as he is/' replied 
Derville. "Listen to me, Madame; one word will be enough 
to make you grave. Colonel Chabert is alive !" 

"Is it by telling me such nonsense as that that you think 
you can make me grave?" said she with a shout of laughter. 
But she was suddenly quelled by the singular penetration 
of the fixed gaze which Derville turned on her, seeming to 
read to the bottom of her soul. 

"Madame," he said, with cold and piercing solemnity, "you 
know not the extent of the danger which threatens you. I 
need say nothing of the indisputable authenticity of the evi- 
dence nor of the fullness of proof which testifies to the iden- 
tity of Comte Chabert. I am not, as you know, the man to 
take up a bad cause. If you resist our proceedings to show 
that the certificate of death was false, you will lose that first 
case, and that matter once settled, we shall gain every point." 

"What, then, do you wish to discuss with me?" 

"Neither the Colonel nor yourself. Nor need I allude 
to the briefs which clever advocates may draw up when 
armed with the curious facts of this case, or the advantage 
they may derive from the letters you received from your 
first husband before your marriage to your second." 

"It is false," she cried, with the violence of a spoiled 
woman. "I never had a letter from Comte Chabert; and 
if someone is pretending to be the Colonel, it is some swindler, 
some returned convict, like Coignard perhaps. It makes me 
shudder only to think of it. Can the Colonel rise from the 
dead, Monsieur ? Bonaparte sent an aide-de-camp to inquire 
for me on his death and to this day I draw the pension of 



COLONEL CHABERT 117 

three thousand francs granted to his widow by the Govern- 
ment. I have been perfectly in the right to turn away all the 
Chaberts who have ever come, as I shall all who may come/' 

"Happily we are alone, Madame. We can tell lies at 
our ease/' said he coolly, and finding it amusing to lash up 
the Countess' rage so as to lead her to betray herself, by 
tactics familiar to lawyers, who are accustomed to keep 
cool when their opponents or their clients are in a passion. 
"Well, then, we must fight it out," thought he, instantly 
hitting on a plan to entrap her and show her her weakness. 

"The proof that you received the first letter, Madame, is 
that it contained some securities " 

"Oh, as to securities — that it certainly did not." 

"Then you received the letter," said Derville, smiling. 
"You are caught, Madame, in the first snare laid for 
you by an attorney, and you fancy you could fight against 
Justice " 

The Countess colored, and then turned pale, hiding her 
face in her hands. Then she shook off her shame, and 
retorted with the natural impertinence of such women, "Since 
you are the so-called Chabert's attorney, be so good as 
to " 

"Madame," said Derville, "I am at this moment as much 
your lawyer as I am Colonel Chabert's. Do you suppose 
I want to lose so valuable a client as you are? But you are 
not listening." 

"Xay, speak on Monsieur," said she graciously. 

"Your fortune came to you from M. le Comte Chabert, 
and you cast him off. Your fortune is immense, and you 
leave him to beg. An advocate can be very eloquent when 
a cause is eloquent in itself; there are here circumstances 
which might turn public opinion strongly against you." 

"But, Monsieur/' said the Comtesse, provoked by the 
way in which Derville turned and laid her on the gridiron, 



118 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"'even if I grant that your M. Chabert is living, the law will 
uphold my second marriage on account of the children, and 
I shall get off with the restitution of two hundred and twenty- 
five thousand francs to M. Chabert." 

"It is impossible to foresee what view the Bench may take 
of the question. If on one side we have a mother and 
children, on the other we have an old man crushed by 
sorrows, made old by your refusals to know him. Where 
is he to find a wife? Can the judges contravene the law? 
Your marriage with Colonel Chabert has priority on its side 
and every legal right. But if you appear under disgraceful 
colors, you might have an unlooked-for adversary. That, 
Madame, is the danger against which I would warn you." 

"And who he is?" 

"Comte Ferraud." 

"Monsieur Ferraud has too great an affection for me, too 
much respect for the mother of his children " 

"Do not talk of such absurd things," interrupted Derville, 
"to lawyers, who are accustomed to read hearts to the bottom. 
At this instant Monsieur Ferraud has not the slightest wish 
to annul your union, and I am quite sure that he adores you ; 
but if some one were to tell him that his marriage is void, 
that his wife will be called before the bar of public opinion 
as a criminal " 

"He would defend me, Monsieur." 

"No, Madame." 

"What reason could he have for deserting me, Monsieur ?" 

"That he would be free to marry the only daughter of a 
peer of France, whose title would be conferred on him by 
patent from the King." 

The Countess turned pale. 

"A hit!" said Derville to himself. "I have you on the 
hip; the poor Colonel's case is won." "Besides, .Madame," 
he went on aloud, "he would feel all the less remorse because 



COLONEL CHABERT 1^ 

a man covered with glory — a General, Count, Grand Cross 
of the Legion of Honor — is not such a bad alternative; and 
if that man insisted on his wife's returning to him " 

"Enough, enough, Monsieur I" she exclaimed. "I will 
never have any lawyer but you. What is to be done? ,, 

"Compromise I" said Derville. 

"Does he still love me?" she said. 

"Well, I do not think he can do otherwise/' 

The Countess raised her head at these words. A flash of 
hope shone in her eyes ; she thought perhaps that she could 
speculate on her first husband's affection to gain her cause 
by some feminine cunning. 

"I shall await your orders, Madame, to know whether I 
am to report our proceedings to you, or if you will come to 
my office to agree to the terms of a compromise," said Der- 
ville, taking leave. 

A week after Derville had paid these two visits, on a fine 
morning in June, the husband and wife, who had been sepa- 
rated by an almost supernatural chance, started from the 
opposite ends of Paris to meet in the office of the lawyer 
who was engaged by both. The supplies liberally advanced 
by Derville to Colonel Chabert had enabled him to dress as 
suited his position in life, and the dead man arrived in a 
very decent cab. He wore a wig suited to his face, was 
dressed in blue cloth with white linen, and wore under his 
waistcoat the broad red ribbon of the higher grade of the 
Legion of Honor. In resuming the habits of wealth he had 
recovered his soldierly style. He held himself up ; his face, 
grave and mysterious-looking, reflected his happiness and all 
his hopes, and seemed to have acquired youth and impasto, 2 * 
to borrow a picturesque word from the painter's art. He 
w r as no more like the Chabert of the old box-coat than a 
cartwheel double sou is like a newly coined forty-franc piece. 

24. His face had color, as though it were painted. 



120 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

The passer-by, only to see him, would have recognized at 
once one of the noble wrecks of our old army, one of the 
heroic men on whom our national glory is reflected, as 
a splinter of ice on which the sun shines seems to reflect 
every beam. These veterans are at once a picture and a 
book. 

When the Count jumped out of his carriage to go into 
Derville's office, he did it as lightly as a young man. Hardly 
had his cab moved off when a smart brougham drove up, 
splendid with coats of arms. Madame la Comtesse Ferraud 
stepped out in a dress which, though simple, was cleverly 
designed to show how youthful her figure was. She wore a 
pretty drawn bonnet lined with pink, which framed her face 
to perfection, softening its outlines and making it look 
younger. 

If the clients were rejuvenescent, the office was unaltered, 
and presented the same picture as that described at the 
beginning of this story. Simonnin was eating his breakfast, 
his shoulder leaning against the window, which was then 
open, and he was staring up at the blue sky in the opening 
of the courtyard enclosed by four gloomy houses. 

"Ah, ha V cried the little clerk, "who will bet an evening 
at the play that Colonel Chabert is a General, and wears a 
red ribbon ?" 

"The chief is a great magician/' said Godeschal. 

"Then there is no trick to play on him this time? ,, asked 
Desroches. 

"His wife has taken that in hand, the Comtesse Ferraud, " 
said Boucard. 

"What next?" said Godeschal. "Is Comtesse Ferraud 
required to belong to two men?" 

"Here she is," answered Simonnin. 

At this moment the Colonel came in and asked for Derville. 

"He is at home, sir," said Simonnin. 



COLONEL CHABERT 121 

"So you are not deaf, you young rogue !" said Chabert, 
taking the gutter-jumper by the ear and twisting it, to the 
delight of the other clerks, who began to laugh, looking at 
the Colonel with the curious attention due to so singular a 
personage. 

Comte Chabert was in Derville's private room at the 
mement when his wife came in by the door of the office. 

"I say, Boucard, there is going to be a queer scene in the 
chief's room ! There is a woman who can spend her days 
alternately, the odd with Comte Ferraud, and the even with 
Comte Chabert. " 

"And in leap year/' said Godeschal, "they must settle the 
count between them." 

"Silence, gentlemen, you can be heard !" said Boucard 
severely. "I never was in an office where there was so much 
jesting as there is here over the clients. " 

Derville had made the Colonel retire to the bedroom when 
the Countess was admitted. 

"Madame," he said, "not knowing whether it would be 
agreeable to you to meet M. le Comte Chabert, I have placed 
you apart. If, however, you should wish it " 

"It is an attention for which I am obliged to you." 

"I have drawn up the memorandum of an agreement of 
which you and M. Chabert can discuss the conditions, here 
and now. I will go alternately to him and to you, and 
explain your views respectively." 

"Let me see, Monsieur," said the Countess impatiently. 

Derville read aloud — 

" 'Between the undersigned : 

' 'M. Hyacinthe Chabert, Count, Marechal de Camp, and 
Grand Officer of the Legion of Honor, living in Paris, Rue 
du Petit Banquier, on the one part; 

" 'And Madame Rose Chapotel, wife of the aforesaid M. 
le Comte Chabert, nee 



122 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"Pass over the preliminaries," said she. "Come to the 
conditions." 

"Madame," said the lawyer, "the preamble briefly sets 
forth the position in which you stand to each other. Then, 
by the first clause, you acknowledge, in the presence of three 
witnesses, of whom two shall be notaries, and one the 
dairyman with whom your husband has been lodging, to all 
of whom your secret is known, and who will be absolutely 
silent — you acknowledge, I say, that the individual desig- 
nated in the documents subjoined to the deed, and whose 
identity is to be further proved by an act of recognition 
prepared by your notary, Alexandre Crottat, is your first 
husband, Comte Chabert. By the second clause Comte 
Chabert, to secure your happiness, will undertake to assert 
his rights only under certain circumstances set forth in the 
deed. And these," said Derville, in a parenthesis, "are 
none other than a failure to carry out the conditions of this 
secret agreement. — M. Chabert, on his part, agrees to accept 
judgment on a friendly suit, by which his certificate of death 
shall be annulled, and his marriage dissolved." 

"That will not suit me in the least," said the Countess 
with surprise. "I will be a party to no suit; you know why." 

"By the third clause," Derville went on, with imperturba- 
ble coolness, you pledge yourself to secure to Hyacinthe 
Comte Chabert an income of twenty-four thousand francs 
on government stock held in his name, to revert to you at 
his death " 

"But it is much too dear !" exclaimed the Countess. 

"Can you compromise the matter cheaper?" 

"Possibly." 

"But what do you want, Madame ?" 

"I want — I will not have a lawsuit. I want " 

"You want him to remain dead?" said Derville, inter- 
rupting her hastily. 



COLONEL CHABERT 123 

"Monsieur/' said the Countess, "if twenty-four thousand 
francs a year are necessary, we will go to law — \ — " 

"Yes, we will go to law," said the Colonel in a deep voice, 
as he opened the door and stood before his wife, with one 
hand in his waistcoat and the other hanging by his side — 
an attitude to which the recollection of his adventure gave 
horrible significance. 

"It is he," said the Countess to herself. 

"Too dear!" the old soldier exclaimed. "I have given 
you near on a million, and you are cheapening my misfor- 
tunes. Very well; now I will have you — you and your 
fortune. Our goods are in common, our marriage is not 

dissolved " 

"But Monsieur is not Colonel Chabert!" cried the Countess, 
in feigned amazement. 

"Indeed !" said the old man, in a tone of intense irony. 
"Do you want proofs? I found you in the Palais Royal 25 — " 

The Countess turned pale. Seeing her grow white under 
her rouge, the old soldier paused, touched by the acute 
suffering he was inflicting on the woman he had once so 
ardently loved; but she shot such a venomous glance at him 
that he abruptly went on: 

"You were with La " 

"Allow me, Monsieur Derville," said the Countess to the 
lawyer. "You must give me leave to retire. I did not come 
here to listen to such dreadful things." 

She rose and went out. Derville rushed after her; but 
the Countess had taken wings and seemed to have flown 
from the place. 

On returning to his private room he found the Colonel in 

a towering rage, striding up and down. 

25. A palace built by Richelieu and afterwards left to Louis XIV. 
Since then various parts of it have been put to different uses, but it 
has always been noted for its galleries and arcades, and shops of all 
kinds, especially jewelry shops. The implication of the Colonel is that 
his wife had been a shop girl. 



124 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"In those times a man took his wife where he chose/' 
said he. , "But I was foolish and chose badly; I trusted to 
appearances. She has no heart." 

"Well, Colonel, was I not right to beg you not to come? 
I am now positive of your identity; when you came in, the 
Countess gave a little start, of which the meaning was 
unequivocal. But you have lost your chances. Your wife 
knows that you are unrecognizable." 

"I will kill her!" 

"Madness ! You will be caught and executed like any 
common wretch. Besides, you might miss ! That would be 
unpardonable. A man must not miss his shot when he wants 
to kill his wife. Let me set things straight; you are only 
a big child. Go now. Take care of yourself; she is capable 
of setting some trap for you and shutting you up in Charen- 
ton. I will notify her of our proceedings to protect you 
against a surprise." 

The unhappy Colonel obeyed his young benefactor, and 
went away, stammering apologies. He slowly went down 
the dark staircase, lost in gloomy thoughts, and crushed 
perhaps by the blow just dealt him — the most cruel he could 
feel, the thrust that could most deeply pierce his heart — 
when he heard the rustle of a woman's dress on the lowest 
landing, and his wife stood before him. 

"Come, Monsieur," said she, taking his arm with a gesture 
like those familiar to him of old. Her action and the accent 
of her voice, which had recovered its graciousness, were 
enough to allay the Colonel's wrath, and he allowed himself 
to be led to the carriage. 

"Well, get in" said she, when the footman had let down 
the step. 

And as if by magic he found himself sitting by his wife 
in the brougham. 

"Where to?" asked the servant. 



COLONEL CHABERT 125 

"To Groslay," said she. 

The horses started at once, and carried them all across 
Paris. 

"Monsieur/* said the Countess, in a tone of voice which 
betrayed one of those emotions which are rare in our lives, 
and which agitate every part of our being. At such moments 
the heart, fibers, nerves, countenance, soul, and body, every- 
thing, every pore even, feels a thrill. Life no longer seems 
to be within us ; it flows out, springs forth, is communicated 
as by contagion, transmitted by a look, a tone of voice, a 
gesture, impressing our will on others. The old soldier 
started on hearing this single word, this first, terrible "Mon- 
sieur !" But still it was at once a reproach and a pardon, a 
hope and a despair, a question and an answer. This word 
included them all; none but an actress could have thrown 
so much eloquence, so many feelings into a single word. 
Truth is less complete in its utterance; it does not put every- 
thing on the outside ; it allows us to see what is within. The 
Colonel was filled with remorse for his suspicions, his 
demands, and his cnger; he looked down not to betray his 
agitation. 

"Monsieur," repeated she, after an imperceptible pause, 
"I knew you at once." 

"Rosine," said the old soldier, "those words contain the 
only balm that can help me to forget my misfortunes." 

Two large tears rolled hot on to his wife's hands, which 
he pressed to show his paternal affection. 

"Monsieur," she went on, "could you not have guessed 
what it cost me to appear before a stranger in a position so 
false as mine now is ? If I have to blush for it, at least let 
it be in the privacy of my family. Ought not such a secret 
to remain buried in our hearts ? You will forgive me, I hope, 
for my apparent indifference to the woes of a Chabert in 
whose existence I could not possibly believe. I received your 



126 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

letters/' she hastily added, seeing in his face the objection 
it expressed, "but they did not reach me till thirteen months 
after the battle of Eylau. They were opened, dirty, the 
writing was unrecognizable; and after obtaining Napoleon's 
signature to my second marriage contract, 1 could not help 
believing that some clever swindler wanted to make a fool 
of me. Therefore, to avoid disturbing Monsieur F errand's 
peace of mind, and disturbing family ties, I was obliged to 
take precautions against a pretended Chabert. Was I not 
right, I ask you?" 

"Yes, you were right. It was I who was the idiot, the 
owl, the dolt, not to have calculated better what the conse- 
quences of such a position might be. But where are we 
going?" he asked, seeing that they had reached the barrier of 
La Chapelle. 

"To my country house near Groslay, in the valley of 
Montmorency. There, Monsieur, we will consider the steps 
to be taken. I know my duties. Though I am yours by 
right, I am no longer yours in fact. Can you wish that we 
should become the talk of Paris? We need not inform the 
public of a situation, which for me has its ridiculous side, 
and let us preserve our dignity. You still love me," she said, 
with a sad, sweet gaze at the Colonel, "but have not I been 
authorized to form other ties? In so strange a position, 
a secret voice bids me trust to your kindness, which is so 
well known to me. Can I be wrong in taking you as the 
sole arbiter of my fate? Be at once judge and party to the 
suit. I trust in your noble character; you will be generous 
enough to forgive me for the consequences of faults com- 
mitted in innocence. I may then confess to you: I love M. 
Ferraud. I believed that I had a right to love him. I do 
not blush to make this confession to you; even if it offends 
you, it does not disgrace us. I cannot conceal the facts. 
When fate made me a widow, I was not a mother." 



COLONEL CHABERT 127 

The Colonel with a wave of his hand bade his wife be 
silent, and for a mile and a half they sat without speaking a 
single word. Chabert could fancy he saw the two little ones 
before him. 

"Rosine." 

"Monsieur ?" 

"The dead are very wrong to come to life again. " 

"Oh, Monsieur, no, no ! Do not think me ungrateful. 
Only, you find me a lover, a mother, while you left me merely 
a wife. Though it is no longer in my power to love, I know 
how much I owe you, and I can still offer you all the affection 
of a daughter." 

"Rosine," said the old man in a softened tone, "I no 
longer feel any resentment against you. We will forget 
everything/' he added, with one of those smiles which always 
reflect a noble soul. "I have not so little delicacy as to 
demand the mockery of love from a wife who no longer 
loves me." 

The Countess gave him a flashing look full of such deep 
gratitude that poor Chabert would have been glad to sink 
again into his grave at Eylau. Some men have a soul strong 
enough for such self-devotion, of which the whole reward 
consists in the assurance that they have made the person 
they love happy. 

"My dear friend, we will talk all this over later when our 
hearts have rested," said the Countess. 

The conversation turned to other subjects, for it was 
impossible to dwell very long on this one. Though the 
couple came back again and again to their singular position, 
either by some allusion or of serious purpose, they had a 
delightful drive, recalling the events of their former life 
together and the times of the Empire. The Countess knew 
how to lend peculiar charm to her reminiscences, and gave 
the conversation the tinge of melancholy that was needed to 



128 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

keep it serious. She revived his love without awakening his 
desires, and allowed her first husband to discern the mental 
wealth she had acquired while trying to accustom him to 
moderate his pleasure to that which a father may feel in the 
society of a favorite daughter. 

The Colonel had known the Countess of the Empire; he 
found her a Countess of the Restoration. 

At last, by a cross-road, they arrived at the entrance to 
a large park lying in the little valley which divides the 
heights of Margency from the pretty village of Groslay. 
The Countess had there a delightful house, where the Colonel 
on arriving found everything in readiness for his stay there, 
as well as for his wife's. Misfortune is a kind of talisman 
whose virtue consists in its power to confirm our original 
nature; in some men it increases their distrust and ma- 
lignancy, just as it improves the goodness of those who have 
a kind heart. \ 

Sorrow had made the Colonel even more helpful and good 
than he had always been, and he could understand some 
secrets of womanly distress which are unrevealed to most 
men. Nevertheless, in spite of his loyal trustfulness, he 
could not help saying to his wife — 

"Then you felt quite sure you would bring me here?" 

"Yes/' replied she, "if I found Colonel Chabert in Der- 
ville's client." 

The appearance of truth she contrived to give to this 
answer dissipated the slight suspicions which the Colonel 
was ashamed to have felt. For three days the Countess was 
quite charming to her first husband. By tender attentions 
and unfailing sweetness she seemed anxious to wipe out the 
memory of the sufferings he had endured, and to earn for- 
giveness for the woes which, as she confessed, she had inno- 
cently caused him. She delighted in displaying for him the 
charms she knew he took pleasure in, while at the same time 



COLONEL CHABERT 129 

she assumed a kind of melancholy; for men are more espe- 
cially accessible to certain ways, certain graces of the heart 
or of the mind which they cannot resist. She aimed at 
interesting him in her position, and appealing to his feelings 
so far as to take possession of his mind and control him 
despotically. 

Ready for anything to attain her ends, she did not yet 
know what she was to do with this man ; but at any rate she 
meant to annihilate him socially. On the evening of the 
third day she felt that in spite of her efforts she could not 
conceal her uneasiness as to the results of her maneuvers. 
To give herself a minute's reprieve, she went up to her 
room, sat down before her writing-table, and laid aside the 
mask of composure which she wore in Chabert's presence,, 
like an actress who, returning to her dressing-room after a 
fatiguing fifth act, drops half dead, leaving with the audi- 
ence an image of herself which she no longer resembles. 
She proceeded to finish a letter she had begun to Delbecq,. 
whom she desired to go in her name and demand of Derville 
the deeds relating to Colonel Chabert, to copy them, and to 
come to her at once to Groslay. She had hardly finished 
when she heard the Colonel's step in the passage ; uneasy at 
her absence, he had come to look for her. 

"Alas I" she exclaimed, "I wish I were dead ! My position 
is intolerable. 

"Why, what is the matter ?" asked the good man. 

"Nothing, nothing !" she replied. 

She rose, left the Colonel, and went down to speak pri- 
vately to her maid, whom she sent off to Paris, impressing on 
her that she was herself to deliver to Delbecq the letter just 
written, and to bring it back to the writer as soon as he had 
read it. Then the Countess went out to sit on a bench suffi- 
ciently in sight for the Colonel to join her as soon as he might 



130 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

choose. The Colonel, who was looking for her, hastened up 
and sat down by her. 

"Rosine," said he, "what is the matter with you?" 

She did not answer. 

It was one of those glorious, calm evenings in the month 
of June, whose secret harmonies infuse such sweetness into 
the sunset. The air was clear, the stillness perfect, so that 
far away in the park they could hear the voices of some 
children, which added a kind of melody to the sublimity of 
the scene. 

"You do not answer me?" the Colonel said to his wife. 

"My husband " said the Countess, who broke off, 

started a little, and with a blush stopped to ask him, "What 
am I to say when I speak of M. Ferraud?" 

"Call him your husband, my poor child," replied the 
Colonel, in a kind voice. "Is he not the father of your 
children?" 

"Well, then," she said, "if he should ask what I came 
here for, if he finds that I came here, alone, with a stranger, 
what am I to say to him? Listen, Monsieur," she went on, 
assuming a dignified attitude, "decide my fate, I am resigned 
to anything " 

"My dear/' said the Colonel, taking possession of his 
wife's hands, "I have made up my mind to sacrifice myself 
entirely for your happiness " 

"That is impossible !" she exclaimed, with a sudden spas- 
modic movement. "Remember that you would have to 
renounce your identity, and in an authenticated form." 

"What?" said the Colonel. "Is not my word enough for 
you?" 

The word "authenticated" fell on the old man's heart and 
roused involuntary distrust. He looked at his wife in a way 
that made her color; she cast down her eyes, and he feared 
that he might find himself compelled to despise her. The 



COLONEL CHABERT 131 

Countess was afraid lest she had scared the shy modesty, 
the stern honesty, of a man whose generous temper and 
primitive virtues were known to her. Though these feelings 
had brought the clouds to their brow, they immediately 
recovered their harmony. This was the way of it. A child's 
cry was heard in the distance. 

"Jules, leave your sister in peace/' the Countess called out. 

"What, are your children here?" said Chabert. 

"Yes, but I told them not to trouble you." 

The old soldier understood the delicacy, the womanly 
tact of so gracious a precaution, and took the Countess' hand 
to kiss it. 

"But let them come," said he. 

The little girl ran up to complain of her brother. 

"Mamma !" 

"Mamma !" 

"It was Jules " 

"It was her " 

Their little hands were held out to their mother, and the 
two childish voices mingled; it was an unexpected and 
charming picture. 

"Poor little things !" cried the Countess, no longer restrain- 
ing her tears, "I shall have to leave them. To whom will the 
law assign them? A mother's heart cannot be divided; I 
want them, I want them." 

"Are you making mamma cry?" said Jules, looking fiercely 
at the Colonel. 

"Silence, Jules !" said the mother in a decided tone. 

The two children stood speechless, examining their mother 
and the stranger with a curiosity which it is impossible to 
express in words. 

"Oh, yes !" she cried. "If I am separated from the Count, 
only leave me * my children, and I will submit to any- 
thing." 



132 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

This was the decisive speech which gained all that she 
had hoped from it. 

"Yes/' exclaimed the Colonel, as if he were ending a 
sentence already begun in his mind, "I must return under- 
ground again. I had told myself so already." 

"Can I accept such a sacrifice ?" replied his wife. "If 
some men have died to save a mistress' honor, they gave 
their life but once. But in this case you would be giving your 
life every day. No, no. It is impossible. If it were only 
your life, it would be nothing; but to sign a declaration that 
you are not Colonel Chabert, to acknowledge yourself an 
impostor, to sacrifice your honor and live a lie every hour 
of the day ! Human devotion cannot go so far. Only think ! 
No. But for my poor children I would have fled with you 
by this time to the other end of the world/' 

"But," said Chabert, "cannot I live here in your little 
lodge as one of your relations ! I am as worn out as a 
cracked cannon ; I want nothing but a little tobacco and the 
Constitutionnel" 

The Countess melted into tears. There was a contest of 
generosity between the Comtesse Ferraud and Colonel Cha- 
bert, and the soldier came out victorious. One evening, 
seeing this mother with her children, the soldier was be- 
witched by the touching grace of a family picture in the 
country, in the shade and the silence; he made a resolution 
to remain dead, and, frightened no longer at the authenti- 
cation of a deed, he asked what he was to do to secure 
beyond all risk the happiness of this family. 

"Do exactly as you like/' said the Countess. "I declare 
to you that I will have nothing to do with this affair. I 
ought not." 

Delbecq had arrived some days before, and in obedience 
to the Countess' verbal instructions, the intendant had suc- 
ceeded in gaining the old soldier's confidence. So on the 



COLONEL CHABERT 133 

following morning Colonel Chabert went with the erewhile 
attorney to Saint-Leu-Taverny, where Delbecq had caused 
the notary to draw up an affidavit in such terms that, after 
hearing it read, the Colonel started up and walked out of 
the office. 

"Turf and thunder ! What a fool you must think me ! 
Why, I should make myself out a swindler !" he exclaimed. 

"Indeed, Monsieur," said Delbecq, "I should advise you 
not to sign in haste. In your place I would get at least 
thirty thousand francs a year out of the bargain. Madame 
would pay them/' 

After annihilating this scoundrel emeritus by the light- 
ning look of an honest man insulted, the Colonel rushed off, 
carried away by a thousand contrary emotions. He was 
suspicious, indignant, and calm again by turns. 

Finally he made his way back into the park of Groslay 
by a gap in a fence, and slowly walked on to sit down and 
rest and meditate at his ease in a little room under a gazebo, 
from which the road to Saint-Leu could be seen. The path 
being strewn with the yellowish sand which is used instead 
of river-gravel, the Countess, who was sitting in the upper 
room of this little summer-house, did not hear the Colonel's 
approach, for she was too much preoccupied with the success 
of her business to pay the smallest attention to the slight 
noise made by her husband. Nor did the old man notice that 
his wife was in the room over him. 

"Well, Monsieur Delbecq, has he signed?" the Countess 
asked her secretary, whom she saw alone on the road beyond 
the hedge of a haha. 

"Xo, Madame. I do not even know what has become 
of our man. The old horse reared." 

"Then we shall be obliged to put him into Charenton," 
said she, "since we have got him." 

The Colonel, who recovered the elasticity of youth to leap 



134 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

the haha, in the twinkling of an eye was standing in front 
of Delbecq, on whom he bestowed the two finest slaps that 
ever a scoundrel's cheeks received. 

"And you may add that old horses can kick !" said he. 

His rage spent, the Colonel no longer felt vigorous enough 
to leap the ditch. He had seen the truth in all its nakedness. 
The Countess' speech and Delbecq's reply had revealed the 
conspiracy of which he was to be the victim. The care 
taken of him was but a bait to entrap him in a snare. That 
speech was like a drop of subtle poison, bringing on in the 
old soldier a return of all his sufferings, physical and moral. 
He came back to the summer-house through the park gate, 
walking slowly like a broken man. 

Then for him there was to be neither peace nor truce! 
From this moment he must begin the odious warfare with 
this woman of which Derville had spoken, enter on a life of 
litigation, feed on gall, drink every morning of the cup of 
bitterness. And then — fearful thought ! where was he to find 
the money needful to pay the cost of the first proceedings? 
He felt such disgust of life, that if there had been any 
water at hand he would have thrown himself into it; that 
if he had had a pistol, he would have blown out his brains. 
Then he relapsed into the indecision of mind which, since 
his conversation with Derville at the dairyman's had changed 
his character. 

At last, having reached the kiosque, he went up to the 
gazebo, where little rose-windows afforded a view over each 
lovely landscape of the valley, and where he found his wife 
seated on a chair. The Countess was gazing at the distance 
and preserved a calm countenance, showing that impene- 
trable face which women can assume when resolved to do 
their worst. She wiped her eyes as if she had been weeping 
and played absently with the pink ribbons of her sash. 
Nevertheless, in spite of her apparent assurance, she could 



COLONEL CHABERT 135 

not help shuddering slightly when she saw before her her 
venerable benefactor, standing with folded arms, his face 
pale, his brow stern. 

"Madame," he said, after gazing at her fixedly for a 
moment and compelling her to blush, "Madame, I do not 
curse you — I scorn you. I can now thank the chance that 
has divided us. I do not feel even a desire for revenge; 
I no longer love you. I want nothing from you. Live in 
peace on the strength of my word; it is worth more than 
the scrawl of all the notaries in Paris. I will never assert 
my claim to the name I perhaps have made illustrious. I am 
henceforth but a poor devil named Hyacinthe, who asks no 
more than his share of the sunshine. Farewell !" 

The Countess threw herself at his feet; she would have 
detained him by taking his hands, but he pushed her away 
with disgust, saying — 

"Do not touch me I" 

The Countess' expression when she heard her husband's 
retreating steps is quite indescribable. Then, with the deep 
perspicacity given only by utter villainy or by fierce worldly 
selfishness, she knew that she might live in peace on the 
word and the contempt of this loyal veteran. 

Chabert, in fact, disappeared. The dairyman failed in 
business and became a hackney-cab driver. The Colonel, 
perhaps, took up some similar industry for a time. Perhaps, 
like a stone flung into a chasm, he went falling from ledge 
to ledge, to be lost in the mire of rags that seethes through 
the streets of Paris. 

Six months after this event, Derville, hearing no more of 
Colonel Chabert or the Comtesse Ferraud, supposed that they 
had no doubt come to a compromise, which the Countess, 
out of revenge, had had arranged by some other lawyer. 
So one morning he added up the sums he had advanced to 
the said Chabert with the costs, and begged the Comtesse 



136 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

Ferraud to claim from M. le Comte Chabert the amount of 
the bill, assuming that she would know where to find her 
first husband. 

The very next day Comte Ferraud's man of business, lately 
appointed President of the County Court in a town of some 
importance,, wrote this distressing note to Derville: 

"Monsieur, — 

"Madame la Comtesse Ferraud desires me to inform you 
that your client took complete advantage of your confidence, 
and that the individual calling himself Comte Chabert has 
acknowledged that he came forward under false pretences. 
Yours, etc. Delbecq/' 

"One comes across people who are, on my honor, too 
stupid by half," cried Derville. "They don't deserve to be 
Christians ! Be humane, generous, philanthropical, and a 
lawyer, and you are bound to be cheated ! There is a piece 
of business that will cost me two thousand-franc notes !" 

Some time after receiving this letter, Derville went to the 
Palais de Justice in search of a pleader to whom he wished 
to speak, and who was employed in the Police Court. As 
chance would have it, Derville went into Court Number 6 at 
the moment when the Presiding Magistrate was sentencing 
one Hyacinthe to two months' imprisonment as a vagabond, 
and subsequently to be taken to the Mendicity House of 
Detention, a sentence which, by magistrate's law, is equiv- 
alent to perpetual imprisonment. On hearing the name 
Hyacinthe, Derville looked at the delinquent, sitting between 
two gendarmes on the bench for the accused, and recognised 
in the condemned man his false Colonel Chabert. 

The old soldier was placid, motionless, almost absent- 
minded. In spite of his rags, in spite of the misery stamped 
on his countenance, it gave evidence of noble pride. His 
eye had a stoical expression which no magistrate ought to 



COLONEL CHABERT 137 

have misunderstood; but as soon as a man has fallen into 
the hands of justice, he is no more than a moral entity, a 
matter of law or of fact, just as to statists he has become 
a zero. 

When the veteran was taken back to the lock-up, to be 
removed later with the batch of vagabonds at that moment at 
the bar, Derville availed himself of the privilege accorded 
to lawyers of going wherever they please in the courts, and 
followed him to the lock-up, where he stood scrutinizing 
him for some minutes, as well as the curious crew of beggars 
among whom he found himself. The passage to the lock-up 
at that moment afforded one of those spectacles which, 
unfortunately, neither legislators nor philanthropists, nor 
painters, nor writers come to study. Like all the laboratories 
of the law, this ante-room is a dark and malodorous place; 
along the walls runs a wooden s*eat, blackened by the constant 
presence there of the wretches who come to this meeting- 
place of every form of social squalor, where not one of them 
is missing. 

A poet might say that the day was ashamed to light up 
this dreadful sewer through which so much misery flows ! 
There is not a spot on that plank where some crime has not 
sat, in embryo or matured; not a corner where a man has 
never stood who, driven to despair by the blight which 
justice has set upon him after his first fault, has not there 
begun a career, at the end of which looms the guillotine or the 
pistol-snap of the suicide. All who fall on the pavement of 
Paris rebound against these yellow-gray walls, on which a 
philanthropist who was not a speculator, might read a justifi- 
cation of the numerous suicides complained of by hypocritical 
writers who are incapable of taking a step to prevent them— 
for that justification is written in that ante-room, like a 
preface to the dramas of the Morgue, or to those enacted on 
the Place de la Greve. 



138 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

At this moment Colonel Chabert was sitting among these 
men — men with coarse faces, clothed in the horrible livery 
of misery, and silent at intervals, or talking in a low tone, 
for three gendarmes on duty paced to and fro, their sabers 
clattering on the floor. 

"Do you recognize me?" said Derville to the old man, 
standing in front of him. 

"Yes, sir," said Chabert, rising. 

"If you are an honest man/' Derville went on in an under- 
tone, "how could you remain in my debt?" 

The old soldier blushed as a young girl might when 
accused by her mother of a clandestine love affair. 

"What! Madame Ferraud has not paid you?" cried he 
in a loud voice. 

"Paid me?" said Derville. "She wrote to me that you 
were a swindler." 

The Colonel cast up his eyes in a sublime impulse of horror 
and imprecation, as if to call heaven to witness to this fresh 
subterfuge. 

"Monsieur," said he, in a voice that was calm by sheer 
huskiness, "get the gendarmes to allow me to go into the 
lock-up, and I will sign an order which will certainly be 
honored." 

At a word from Derville to the sergeant he was allowed to 
take his client into the room, where Hyacinthe wrote a few 
lines, and addressed them to the Comtesse Ferraud. 

"Send her that," said the soldier, "and you will be paid 
your costs and the money you advanced. Believe me, Mon- 
sieur, if I have not shown you the gratitude I owe you for 
your kind offices, it is not the less there," and he laid his hand 
on his heart. "Yes, it is there, deep and sincere. But what 
can the unfortunate do? They live, and that is all." 

"What!" said Derville. "Did you not stipulate for an 
allowance?" 



COLONEL CHABERT 139 

"Do not speak of it !" cried the old man. "You cannot 
conceive how deep my contempt is for the outside life to 
which most men cling. I was suddenly attacked by a sick- 
ness — disgust of humanity. When I think that Napoleon 
is at Saint Helena, everything on earth is a matter of indif- 
ference to me. I can no longer be a soldier ; that is my only 
real grief. After all/' he added with a gesture of childish 
simplicity, "it is better to enjoy luxury of feeling than of 
dress. For my part, I fear nobody's contempt/' 

And the Colonel sat down on his bench again. 

Derville went away. On returning to his office, he sent 
Godeschal, at that time his second clerk, to the Comtesse 
Ferraud, who, on reading the note, at once paid the sum due 
to Comte Chabert's lawyer. 

In 1830, toward the end of June, Godeschal, now himself 
an attorney, went to Ris with Derville, to whom he had 
succeeded. When they reached the avenue leading from the 
high road to Bicetre, 26 they saw, under one of the elm trees 
by the wayside, one of those old, broken, and hoary paupers 
who have earned the Marshal's staff 27 among beggars by 
living on at Bicetre as poor women live on at la Salpetriere. 28 
This man, one of the two thousand poor creatures who are 
lodged in the infirmary for the aged, was seated on a corner- 
stone, and seemed to have concentrated all his intelligence on 
an operation well known to these pensioners, which consists 
in drying their snuffy pocket-handkerchiefs in the sun, per- 
haps to save washing them. This old man had an attractive 
countenance. He was dressed in the reddish cloth wrapper- 
coat which the workhouse affords to its inmates, a sort of 
horrible livery. 

26. A town known for its home for the aged and the insane. 

27. The rank of Marshal 'is the highest honor that can be conferred 
in the French army. The staff is part of the insignia of the rank. 

28. An institution for women, in Paris, similar to the one for men at 
Bicetre. 



140 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"I say, Derville," said Godeschal to his traveling com- 
panion, "look at that old fellow. Isn't he like those gro- 
tesque carved figures we get from Germany ? And it is alive, 
perhaps it is happy." 

Derville looked at the poor man through his eyeglass, and 
with a little exclamation of surprise he said: 

"That old man, my dear fellow, is a whole poem, or, as the 
romantics say, a drama. Did you ever meet the Comtesse 
Ferraud?" 

"Yes; she is a clever woman, and agreeable; but rather 
too pious," said Godeschal. 

"That old Bicetre pauper is her lawful husband, Comte 
Chabert, the old Colonel. She has had him sent here, no 
doubt. And if he is in this workhouse instead of living in 
a mansion, it is solely because he reminded the pretty 
Countess that he had taken her, like a hackney cab, on the 
street. I can remember now the tiger's glare she shot at 
him at that moment." 

This opening having excited GodeschaFs curiosity, Der- 
ville related the story here told. 

Two days later, on Monday morning, as they returned to 
Paris, the two friends looked again at Bicetre, and Derville 
proposed that they should call on Colonel Chabert. Half way 
up the avenue they found the old man sitting on the trunk 
of a felled tree ; with his stick in one hand, he was amusing 
himself with drawing lines in the sand. On looking at him 
narrowly, they perceived that he had been breakfasting 
elsewhere than at Bicetre. 

"Good morning, Colonel Chabert," said Derville. 

"Not Chabert! Not Chabert! My name is Hyacinthe," 
replied the veteran. "I am no longer a man, I am No. 
164, Room 7/' he added, looking at Derville with timid 
anxiety, the fear of an old man and a child. "Are you 
going to visit the man condemned to death?" he asked, 



COLONEL CHABERT 141 

after a moment's silence. "He is not married ! He is very 
lucky!" 

"Poor fellow!" said Godeschal. "Would you like some- 
thing to buy snuff?" 

With all the simplicity of a street Arab, the Colonel 
eagerly held out his hand to the two strangers, who each 
gave him a twenty-franc piece; he thanked them with a 
puzzled look, saying — 

"Brave troopers !" 

He ported arms, pretended to take aim at them, and 
shouted with a smile: 

"Fire! both arms! Vive Napoleon!" And he drew a 
flourish in the air with his stick. 

"The nature of his wound has no doubt made him childish," 
said Derville. 

"Childish ! He?" said another old pauper, who was looking 
on. "Why, there are days when you had better not tread 
on his corns. He is an old rogue, full of philosophy and 
imagination. But today, what can you expect ! He has had 
his Monday treat. He was here, Monsieur, so long ago as 
1820. At that time a Prussian officer, whose chaise was 
crawling up the hill of Villejuif, came by on foot. We 
two were together, Hyacinthe and I, by the roadside. The 
'officer, as he walked, was talking to another, a Russian, or 
some animal of the same species, and when the Prussian saw 
the old boy, just to make fun, he said to him, 'Here is an 
old cavalry man who must have been at Rossbach/ 28 'I 
was too young to be there,' said Hyacinthe. 'But I was at 
Jena. 29 And the Prussian made off pretty quick, without 
asking any more questions." 

"What a destiny !" exclaimed Derville. "Taken out of 
the Foundling Hospital to die in the Infirmary for the Aged, 

29. At Rossbach, a village in Saxony, the Germans defeated the 
French. Nov. 5, 1757. At Jena, also in Saxony, the French, under 
Napoleon, defeated the Germans, Oct. 14, 1806. 



142 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

after helping Napoleon between whiles to conquer Egypt 
and Europe. Do you know, my dear fellow/' Derville went 
on after a pause, * 'there are in modern society three men who 
can never think well of the world — the priest, the doctor, and 
the man of law ? And they wear black robes, perhaps because 
they are in mourning for every virtue and every illusion. The 
most hapless of the three is the lawyer. When a man comes 
in search of the priest, he is prompted by repentance, by 
remorse, by beliefs which make him interesting, which elevate 
him and comfort the soul of the intercessor whose task will 
bring him a sort of gladness ; he purifies, repairs, and recon- 
ciles. But we lawyers, we see the same evil feelings repeated 
again and again, nothing can correct them; our offices are 
sewers which can never be cleansed. 

"How many things have I learned in the exercise of my 
profession ! I have seen a father die in a garret, deserted 
by two daughters, to whom he had given forty thousand 
francs a year ! I have known wills burnt ; I have seen mothers 
robbing their children, wives killing their husbands, and 
working on the love they could inspire to make the men 
idiotic or mad, that they might live in peace with a lover. I 
have seen women teaching the child of their marriage such 
tastes as must bring it to the grave in order to benefit the 
child of an illicit affection. I could not tell you all I have 
seen, for I have seen crimes against which justice is impotent. 
In short, all the horrors that romancers suppose they have 
invented are still below the truth. — You will know something 
of these pretty things ; as for me, I am going to live in the 
country with my wife. I have a horror of Paris." 

"I have seen plenty of them already in Desroches' office," 
replied Godeschal. 



MERIMEE 

(1803-1870) 

Prosper Merimee was born in Paris in 1803. Both his 
father and mother were artists, but the son was educated 
to be a lawyer. He passed the bar examination but never 
practiced, preferring to spend his time in the study of lan- 
guages, especially English. Merimee was very fond of the 
intellectual society of Paris and liked to be considered a 
man of the world, a distinction which he deserved because 
of his varied interests both at home and in foreign parts. 
He did not allow himself to become too much attached to 
any one profession, but rather played the part of the ama- 
teur in many. Among his particular interests were : writing 
plays ; making historical investigations ; archaeology ; writing 
novels and short stories ; collecting coins ; and traveling. 
Under the Second Empire he was a Senator, and later he 
was appointed Inspector-General of Historical Monuments, 
in which capacity he labored much in the restoration of old 
architecture and the preservation of the Roman remains in 
France. 

Merimee's short stories are always dramatic, realistic in 
treatment, but romantic in subject. Like Balzac, he looked 
for the exceptional incident and the exceptional character. 
He chose stories in which something happened, something 
definite and striking, and nearly always that something was 
death. His style is simple, direct, precise, and entirely 
without decoration. He emphasized the importance of 
small but significant facts and was unusually successful in 
imparting local color effects without obtruding them upon 
the story proper. 

In his attitude towards life and the world he always 
maintained a severely cynical pessimism. Neither in his 

143 



144 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

stories nor in his life did he allow any display of emotion. 
He was skeptical about the idea of good in the world and 
wrote "that there is nothing more common than doing evil 
for the pleasure of doing it." However, underneath all 
this outward cynicism he was really a man of warm sympa- 
thies and charitable inclinations, though, like Maupassant, 
he never allowed his personality to be revealed in his work. 

Merimee was the first great French writer who took an 
intelligent and special interest in Russian novelists. He 
greatly admired the stories of Pushkin and was the friend 
of Turgenev, who lived all the latter part of his life in 
Paris. 

Mateo Falcone (1829), the selection in this volume, is an 
excellent illustration of Merimee's choice of subject, mate- 
rial, treatment, and above all, the tragic irony which he 
consciously cultivated for the purpose of his art. Other 
stories of the same type are Colomba, Taking of the Re- 
doubt, Tamango, and Carmen, all of which deserve the 
attention of the reader of French fiction. 

Merimee was elected to the French Academy in 1844. 
He died at Cannes, September 23, 1870. 



MATEO FALCONE 

By PROSPER MERIMEE 

Going out of Porto- Vecchio and turning northwest, 
towards the interior of the island, you see the land rise 
pretty sharply, and, after a three hours' walk along wind- 
ing paths, obstructed by great lumps of rock, and sometimes 
cut by ravines, you reach the edge of a most extensive 
maquis. 1 The mdquis is the home of the Corsican shepherds 
and of whoever is in trouble with the police. You must know 
that the Corsican peasant, to save himself the trouble of 
manuring, sets fire to a stretch of wood ; if the flames spread 
further than is necessary, so much the worse; but whatever 

1. The name given to the bush country of Corsica. 



MATEO FALCONE 145 

happens, he is sure of a good harvest from sowing on this 
ground, fertilized by the ashes of the trees it bore. When 
the corn has been gathered (they leave the straw, which 
would be a trouble to collect), the tree roots, which have 
stayed in the ground without wasting away, put forth very 
heavy shoots in the following spring, which in a few years 
reach a height of seven or eight feet. It is this species of 
close thicket that they call the mdquis. It is made up of 
different kinds of trees and shrubs mixed and entangled as 
God wills. Only with a hatchet in his hand can a man open 
himself a way through, and there are mdquis so thick and 
bushy that the wild rams themselves are unable to penetrate 
them. 

If you have killed a man, go into the mdquis of Porto- 
Vecchio, and you will live there in safety, with a good gun, 
powder, and shot; you must not forget a brown cloak with 
a hood on it, that will serve as covering and mattress. The 
shepherds give you milk, cheese, and chestnuts, and you will 
have nothing to fear from the law, or the dead man's rela- 
tions, except when you have to go down into the town to 
renew your stock of ammunition. 

Mateo Falcone, when I was in Corsica in 18 — , had his 
house half a league's distance from the mdquis. He was a 
fairly rich man in the countryside; living as a gentleman, 
that is to say, without doing anything, on the produce of 
his flocks, that shepherds, a kind of nomads, pastured here 
and there over the mountains. When I saw him, two years 
after the incident I am about to relate to you, he seemed 
to me fifty years old at most. Imagine a man small but 
sturdy, with crisp hair, black as jet, large quick eyes, and 
a complexion the color of boot-leather. His skill with the 
gun passed for extraordinary, even in his country where 
there are so many good shots. For example, Mateo would 
never fire at a wild ram with buckshot: at a hundred and 



146 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

twenty paces, he would bring it down with a bullet in the 
head or the shoulder, as he chose. He used his weapon as 
easily at night as in the daytime, and I heard this proof 
of his skill, that will perhaps seem incredible to those who 
have not traveled in Corsica. At eighty paces, a lighted 
candle was placed behind a piece of transparent paper as 
big as a plate. He aimed. The candle was blown out, and, 
after a minute in the most absolute darkness, he fired and 
pierced the paper three times out of four. 

With such transcendent merit, Mateo Falcone had won a 
great reputation. Men said he was as good a friend as he 
was a dangerous enemy: obliging, too, and charitable, he 
lived at peace with everybody in the neighborhood of Porto- 
Vecchio. But it was said of him that, at Corte, whence he 
had taken his wife, he had disembarrassed himself in the 
most vigorous manner of a rival accounted as redoubtable 
in war as in love; at least, to Mateo was attributed a certain 
shot that had surprised his rival shaving before a little 
mirror hung in his window. The affair was hushed up, and 
Mateo married. His wife Giuseppa had given him first 
three girls (at which he was enraged) and finally a boy, 
whom he called Fortunato, the hope of his family, heir to 
the name. The daughters were well married: their father 
could count at need on the poniards and carbines of his 
sons-in-law. The son was only ten years old, but already 
promised well. 

One autumn day, Mateo went out early with his wife to 
visit one of his flocks in a clearing in the maquis. Little 
Fortunato wanted to accompany him, but the clearing was 
too far away; besides, it was very necessary that some one 
should stay to guard the house; the father refused: we 
shall see if he had not good reason to regret it. 

He had been away some hours, and little Fortunato was 
tranquilly stretched in the sun, looking at the blue moun- 



MATEO FALCONE 147 

tains, and thinking that next Sunday he would be going 
to dinner in the town, at the house of his uncle the Corporal, 2 
when he was suddenly interrupted in his meditations by the 
sound of a gun. He stood up and turned to the side of 
the plain whence the sound came. Other gunshots followed, 
fired at irregular intervals, and always nearer and nearer; 
at last, a man appeared in the path leading from the plain 
to Mateo's house, a pointed cap on his head, like those worn 
by the mountaineers, bearded, in tatters, dragging himself 
with difficulty, leaning on his gun. He had just received a 
bullet in the thigh. 

The man was a bandit, 3 who, having set off by night to 
get powder in the town, had fallen on the way into an 
ambuscade of Corsican light infantry. After a vigorous 
defense, he had succeeded in making good his retreat, hotly 
pursued, and firing from rock to rock. But he had not much 
start of the soldiers, and* his wound made it impossible for 
him to reach the mdquis before being caught up. 

He came up to Fortunato, and said: 

"You are Mateo Falcone's son?" 

"Yes." 

"I am Gianetto Sanpiero. The yellow collars 4 are after 
me. Hide me, for I can go no further." 

"And what will my father say, if I hide you without his 
leave?" 

"He will say you have done right." 

"Who knows?" 

"Hide me quickly; they are coming." 

"Wait till my father comes back." 

"Wait ! Confound it ! They will be here in five minutes. 
Come, hide me, or I'll kill you." 

Fortunato answered him with the utmost calm: 

2. A title in Corsica to a man of property and influence. 

3. A refugee from justice. 

4. The light infantry uniform had a yellow collar. 



148 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"Your gun is not loaded, and there are no cartridges in 
your caribera." 5 

"I have my dagger." 

"But will you run as quick as I?" 

He made a bound and put himself out of reach. 

"You are not the son of Mateo Falcone. Will you let me 
be arrested in front of your house ?" 

The child seemed touched. 

"What will you give me if I hide you?" he said, coming 
nearer. 

The bandit rummaged in a leather pouch that hung at 
his belt, and took out a five-franc piece that he had no doubt 
kept to buy powder. Fortunato smiled at the sight of the 
piece of silver; he seized it and said to Gianetto: 

"Fear nothing." 

Instantly he made a great hole in a hayrick placed near 
the house. Gianetto squatted down in it, and the child 
covered him up so as to leave him a little air to breathe, 
and yet so that it was impossible to suspect that a man was 
concealed in the hay. He bethought himself too of an 
ingenious piece of savage cunning. He fetched a cat and 
her little ones, and established them on the hayrick, to make 
believe that it had not been stirred for some time. Then, 
noticing traces of blood on the path close to the house, he 
covered them carefully with dust, and, that done, lay down 
again in the sun with the utmost tranquillity. 

Some minutes later, six men in brown uniform with yellow 
collars, commanded by an adjutant, were before Mateo's 
door. The adjutant was distantly connected with Falcone. 
(It is well known that in Corsica degrees of relationship are 
counted farther than elsewhere.) His name was Tiodoro 
Gamba: he was a man of energy, much feared by the 
bandits, many of whom he had already run down. 

5. A cartridge belt. 



MATEO FALCONE 149 

"Good-day, little cousin/' said he, accosting Fortunato. 
"How you have grown! Did you see a man pass by just 
now: 

"Oh, I am not yet as big as you, cousin," the child 
answered with a simple air. 

"That will come. But tell me, haven't you seen a man 
go by?" 

"Have I seen a man go by?" 

"Yes; a man with a pointed cap, and a waistcoat worked 
in red and yellow?" 

"A man with a pointed cap, and a waistcoat worked in 
red and yellow?" 

"Yes; answer quickly, and do not repeat my questions." 

"This morning, Monsieur the Cure went past our door on 
his horse Piero. He asked me how papa was, and I told 
him . . ." 

"Ah, you young scamp, you are playing the fool ! Tell 
me at once which way Gianetto went; he is the man we 
are after, and I am sure he took this path." 

"Who knows?" 

"Who knows? I know you have seen him." 

"Does one then see passersby when one is asleep ?" 

"Rogue, you were not asleep; the gunshots woke you 
up." 

"So you think, cousin, that your carbines make so much 
noise? My father's rifle makes much more." 

"May the devil take you, cursed scamp that you are ! 
I am very sure you have seen Gianetto. Perhaps you have 
even hidden him. Come, mates, into the house with you, 
and see if our man is not there. He was only going on 
one foot, and he has too much sense, the rascal, to try and 
reach the mdquis limping. Besides, the traces of blood stop 
here." 

"And what will papa say?" asked Fortunato, chuckling; 



150 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"what will he say when he hears that his house was entered 
while he was out?" 

"Rogue!" said Adjutant Gamba, taking him by the ear, 
"do you know that, if I like, I can make you change your 
tune? Perhaps, if I give you a score of blows with the flat 
of the sword; you will speak at last/' 

And Fortunato went on chuckling. 

"My father is Mateo Falcone," he said with emphasis. 

"Do you know, little scamp, that I can take you off to 
Corte or to Bastia? I will put you to sleep in a cell, on 
straw, with irons on your feet, and I will have your head 
cut off unless you say where is Gianetto Sanpiero." 

The child broke into a laugh at this ridiculous threat. 
He said again: 

"My father is Mateo Falcone." 

"Adjutant," said one of the voltigeurs 5 under his breath, 
"do not let us get into trouble with Mateo/' 

It was clear that Gamba was embarrassed. He spoke in 
a low voice to his men, who had already gone through the 
house. It was not a long business, for a Corsican's cottage 
is made up of a single square room. The furniture consists 
of a table, benches, chests, household utensils, and the 
weapons of the chase. Meanwhile, little Fortunato stroked 
his cat, and seemed to find a malicious enjoyment in the 
discomfiture of the voltigeurs and his cousin. 

A soldier came up to the hayrick. He saw the cat, and 
carelessly stuck a bayonet in the hay, shrugging his shoul- 
ders, as if he felt he were taking a ridiculous precaution. 
Nothing stirred; and the child's face did not betray the 
slightest emotion. 

The adjutant and his men cursed their luck; they were 
already looking seriously towards the plain, as if ready to 
go back whence they had come, when their leader, convinced 

6. The light infantry employed as country police. 



MATEO FALCONE 151 

that threats would make no impression on Falcone's son, 
wished to make a final attempt, and try the effect of caresses 
and gifts. 

"Little cousin/' said he, "you seem to be a wide-awake 
young rogue ! You will go far. But you are playing a risky 
game with me; and, if it were not for fear of troubling my 
cousin Mateo, devil take it, if I would not carry you off 
with me." 

"Bah!" 

"But, when my cousin returns, I shall tell him the whole 
story, and he will give you the whip till the blood comes, 
for telling lies." 

"How do you know?" 

"You will see. . . . But look here. . . . Be a good boy, 
and I will give you something." 

"As for me, cousin, I will give you a piece of advice; and 
that is, that if you dawdle any longer, Gianetto will be in 
the maquis, and it will take a smarter fellow than you to go 
and look for him there." 

The adjutant pulled a silver watch out of his pocket, 
worth a good ten crowns ; 7 and, noticing that little For- 
tunato's eyes glittered as they looked at it, dangled the 
watch at the end of its steel chain, and said: 

"Scamp ! you would be glad enough to have a watch like 
this hanging from your neck ; you would walk in the streets 
of Porto- Vecchio, proud as a peacock; and people would 
ask you, 'What time is it?' and you would say to them, 'Look 
at my watch/ " 

"When I am big, my uncle the Corporal will give me a 
watch." 

"Yes; but your uncle's son has one already . . . not as 
fine as this it is true . . . and yet he is younger than you." 

The child sighed. 

7. The crown was worth $1.12 ; it is no. longer current in France. 



152 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"Well, would you like the watch, little cousin?" 

Fortunato, ogling the watch out of the corners of his eyes, 
was like a cat to whom one offers a whole chicken. The cat 
dares not put a claw on it, feeling that one is laughing at 
him, and turns away his eyes from time to time, so as not to 
succumb to the temptation ; but he licks his lips continually, 
and seems to say to his master, "What a cruel joke this is !" 

And yet* Adjutant Gamba seemed to be making a real offer 
of the watch. Fortunato did not put out his hand, but said, 
with a bitter smile: 

"Why are you laughing at me?" 

"By God ! I am not laughing. Only tell me where is 
Gianetto, and the watch is yours." 

Fortunato allowed an incredulous smile to escape him; 
and, fixing his black eyes on those of the adjutant, tried to 
read in them the good faith he sought for in the words. 

"May I lose my epaulettes," cried the adjutant, "if I do 
not give you the watch on that condition! My fellows are* 
witnesses, and I cannot unsay it." 

As he spoke, he brought the watch nearer and nearer till 
it almost touched the pale cheek of the child, whose face 
showed clearly how covetousness and the respect due to hos- 
pitality were contending in his soul. His bare breast heaved 
convulsively, and he seemed almost choking. Meanwhile the 
watch swung, and twisted, and sometimes touched the tip of 
his nose. At last, little by little, his right hand rose towards 
the watch ; he touched it with the tip of his fingers ; its whole 
weight was in his hand, without the adjutant, however, let- 
ting go the end of the chain . . . the face was blue . . . the 
case newly burnished ... it seemed all on fire in the sun. 
. . . The temptation was too strong. 

Fortunato lifted his left hand also, and indicated with his 
thumb, over his shoulder, the hayrick on which he leant. The 
adjutant instantly understood. He dropped the end of the 



MATEO FALCONE 153 

chain. Fortunato felt himself sole possessor of the watch. 
He leapt with the agility of a deer, and put ten paces 
between himself and the hayrick, that the voltigeurs imme- 
diately set to work to bring down. . 

It was not long before they saw the hay stir; a bleeding 
man came out of it, with a dagger in his hand ; but, when he 
tried to get on his feet, his congealed wound prevented him 
from standing upright. He fell. The ad j utant flung him- 
self upon him, and wrested away his poniard. Immediately 
he was strongly bound, in spite of his resistance. 

Gianetto, laid on the ground, and tied up like a bundle of 
sticks, turned his head towards Fortunato, who had come up 
again. 

"Son of . . . !" he said, with more scorn than anger. 

The child threw him the piece of silver he had had from 
him, feeling that he no longer deserved it; but the proscribed 
man did not seem to notice the action. He said very tran- 
quilly to the ad j utant : 

"My dear Gamba, I cannot walk; you will have to carry 
me to the town." 

"You were running just now, quicker than a young goat/' 
retorted the cruel victor; "but be easy: I am so glad to have 
got you, I would carry you a league on my back without feel- 
ing the weight. Anyhow, comrade, we will make you a litter 
with branches and your cloak, and we shall find horses at the 
farm of Crespoli." 

"Good," said the prisoner; "you will put a little straw on 
the litter, won't you, to make me more comfortable ?" 

While the voltigeurs were busy, some in making a sort of 
stretcher with branches of a chestnut-tree, others in dressing 
Gianetto's wound, Mateo Falcone and his wife appeared 
suddenly at the bend of a path that led to the mdquis. The 
woman was in front, bending heavily under the weight of a 
huge sack of chestnuts, while her husband strutted along, 



154 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

carrying nothing but a gun in his hand, and another slung on 
his back. It is beneath the dignity of a man to carry any 
other burden than his weapons. 

Mateo's first thought on seeing the soldiers was that they 
had come to arrest him. But why this idea? Had Mateo 
then some quarrel with the law? Not at all. He enjoyed a 
good reputation. He was "well spoken of/' as the saying is ; 
but he was a Corsican and a mountaineer, and there are few 
Corsican mountaineers who, if they look well into their 
memories, do not find there some peccadillo, a gunshot or a 
dagger-blow, or other bagatelle. Mateo had a clearer con- 
science than most; for it was ten years since he had aimed 
his gun at a man; but he was prudent nevertheless, and got 
ready to make a good defense, if need be. 

"Wife/* said he, to Giuseppa,<"put down your sack, and be 
ready." 

She instantly obeyed. He gave her the gun from his 
bandolier 8 which might have inconvenienced him. He 
cocked the one he had in his hand, and advanced slowly 
towards his house, keeping along the trees by the side of the 
path, and ready, at the slightest sign of hostility, to throw 
himself behind the biggest trunk, whence he would be able 
to fire from cover. His wife walked at his heels, holding his 
spare gun, and his cartridge-box. It is the business of a good 
wife, in case of battle, to load her husband's weapons. 

The adjutant, on the other side, was considerably troubled 
at seeing Mateo advance in this manner, with measured 
steps, his gun ready, and his finger at the trigger. 

"If by chance/' he thought, "Mateo should be a relation 
of Gianetto, or a friend, and should wish to defend him, the 
bullets of his two guns will reach two of us, as sure as a 
letter by post, and if he should aim at me in spite of our 
relationship . . . !" 

8. A shoulder belt with cartridge loops. 



MATEO FALCONE 155 

In the difficulty he made a very courageous resolve, and 
that was to go forward to meet Mateo by himself, and tell 
him about the matter, accosting him as an old acquaint- 
ance ; but the short distance that separated him from Mateo 
seemed terribly long. 

"Hola there, old comrade/' he cried, "how are you, old 
man? It is I, Gamba, your cousin." 

Mateo, without answering a word, had stopped, and, as 
the other spoke, slowly raised the barrel of his gun, so that 
at the moment when the adjutant came up to him it was 
pointed to the sky. 

"Good-day, brother," said the adjutant, holding out his 
hand. "It is a very long time since I last saw you." 

"Good-day, brother." 

"I had come to give good-day to you in passing, and to 
my cousin Pepa. We have made a long march today; but 
we must not complain of being tired, for we have made a 
famous capture. We have just got hold of Gianetto San- 
piero." 

"God be praised," cried Giuseppa; "he robbed us of a 
milch-goat last week." 

These words rejoiced Gamba. 

"Poor devil," said Mateo, "he was hungry." 

"The rogue defended himself like a lion," pursued the 
adjutant, a little taken aback; "he killed one of my volti- 
geurs, and, not content with that, broke Corporal Chardon's 
arm; but that is no great harm, he was only a Frenchman. 
. . . Then he had hidden himself so well that the devil 
could not have discovered him. Without my little cousin 
Fortunato, I should never have been able to find him." 

''Fortunato \" cried Mateo. 

"Fortunato!" repeated Giuseppa. 

"Yes, Gianetto had hidden himself under that hayrick 
over there ; but my little cousin showed me the trick. I shall 



156 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

tell his uncle the Corporal, and he will send him a fine 
present for his pains. And his name and yours shall be 
in the report that I send to the Public Prosecutor/' 

"Curse/' said Mateo, very low. 

They had come up to the soldiers. Gianetto was already 
laid on his litter, ready to start. When he saw Mateo with 
Gamba he smiled an odd smile; then, turning towards the 
door of the house, he spat on the threshold, and said: 

"The house of a traitor." 

Only a man ready to die would have dared to apply the 
name of traitor to Falcone. A good dagger thrust, that 
would leave no need of a second, would have instantly 
avenged the insult. But Mateo's only movement was to put 
his hand to his forehead like a stunned man. 

Fortunato had gone into the house on seeing the arrival 
of his father. He soon reappeared with a bowl of milk, 
which he presented with downcast eyes to Gianetto. 

"Keep off!" shouted the bandit with a voice of thunder. 

Then, turning to one of the voltigeurs : 

"Let's have a drink, comrade," he said. 

The soldier put his flask in his hands, and the bandit 
drank the water given him by a man with whom he had 
just been exchanging gunshots. Then he asked that his 
hands should be fastened crossed on his breast, instead of 
tied behind his back. 

"I like," said he, "to lie at my ease." 

They did their best to satisfy him; then the adjutant 
gave the signal for the start, said "good-bye" to Mateo, who 
did not answer, and went down at a smart pace towards the 
plain. 

Ten minutes passed before Mateo opened his mouth. The 
child looked uneasily, now at his mother, and now at his 
father, who, leaning on his gun, considered him with an 
expression of concentrated rage. 



MATEO FALCONE 157 

"You begin well/' said Mateo at last, in a voice calm, but 
terrifying to those who knew the man. 

"Father V* cried the child, coming nearer, with tears in 
his eyes, as if to throw himself at his knees. 

But Mateo shouted at him: 

"Out of my presence V 

And the child stopped short, and sobbed, motionless, a 
few steps from his father. 

Giuseppa came up. She had just noticed the watch- 
chain, one end of which hung out of Fortunato's shirt. 

"Who gave you that watch ?" she asked sternly. 

"My cousin, the adjutant/' 

Falcone seized the watch, and, flinging it violently against 
a stone, broke it in a thousand pieces. 

"Woman/' said he, "is this child mine?" 

The brown cheeks of Giuseppa became brick red. 

"What are you saying, Mateo? Do you know to whom 
you are speaking?" 

"Well, this child is the first of his race to be a traitor." 

The sobs and chokes of Fortunato redoubled, and Falcone 
kept his lynx eyes always fixed upon him. At last he struck 
the ground with the butt of his gun, then threw it across his 
shoulder, and took once more the path to the maquis, shout- 
ing to Fortunato to follow him. The child obeyed. 

Giuseppa ran after Mateo and caught him by the arm. 

"He is your son," she said in a trembling voice, fixing 
her black eyes on her husband's as if to read what was 
passing in his soul. 

"Leave me," answered Mateo; "I am his father." 

Giuseppa kissed her son and went weeping back into the 
cottage. She threw herself on her knees before an image 
of the Virgin, and prayed fervently. Meanwhile Falcone 
walked some two hundred paces along the path, and did 
not stop until he went down into a small ravine. He felt 



158 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

the earth with the butt of his gun, and found it soft and 
easy to dig. The place seemed suitable to his purpose. 

"Fortunato, go up to that big rock." 

The child did as he was told, and then knelt. 

"Say your prayers." 

"Father, my father, do not kill me." 

"Say your prayers !" repeated Mateo in a terrible voice. 

The child, stammering and sobbing, recited the Pater and 
the Credo. The father responded Amen in a loud voice at the 
end of each prayer. 

"Are those all the prayers you know?" 

"Father, I know the Ave Maria too, and the litany my 
aunt taught me." 

"It is very long, but never mind." 

The child finished the litany in a stifled voice. 

"Have you done?" 

"O father, have mercy! forgive me! I will not do it 
again ! I will beg my cousin the Corporal ever so hard that 
Gianetto may be pardoned !" 

He was still speaking; Mateo had cocked his gun, and 
took aim, saying: 

"May God forgive you !" 

The child made a desperate effort to get up, and embrace 
his father's knees; but he had not the time. Mateo fired, 
and Fortunato fell stone-dead. 

Without throwing a glance at the corpse, Mateo took the 
path to his house, to get a spade for the digging of his 
son's grave. He had only gone a few yards when he met 
Giuseppa, running, alarmed by the gunshot. 

"What have you done?" she cried. 

"Justice." 

"Where is he?" 

"In the ravine. I am going to bury him. He died a 
Christian; I will have a mass sung for him. Let them tell 
my son-in-law, Tiodore Bianchi, to come and live with us. " 



MUSSET 

(1810-1857) 

Alfred de Musset was born in Paris in 1810. He was 
brought up in an atmosphere of literary culture; and even 
as a boy he delighted in reading the old romances with his 
older brother, Paul. At the University he studied both law 
and medicine, but never practiced either of these professions. 
He gravitated towards literature, and at the age of twenty 
created a tremendous sensation by a volume of poetry en- 
titled Stories of Spain and Italy. His romantic tempera- 
ment drew him among that group of romanticists who 
flocked to the standards of Victor Hugo. To the French he 
is known primarily as a poet and dramatist, though English 
readers know him mainly through his stories. 

The early part of Musset's life was a brilliant success. 
He moved in the first literary circles of Paris, knowing 
and being known by everybody. His work brought him the 
honor of election to the French Academy in 1852. Unfor- 
tunately, however, his life had been an almost continuous 
dissipation, and this prematurely blunted his unusual talents. 
He was a man of striking personality, but of perverse moods, 
craving sympathy and easily influenced, especially by 
women. His last years were spent most sadly ; the friends 
of his better days drifted away from him, and in 1857, 
when he died, barely thirty people followed his body to 
Pere Lachaise cemetery. Among those who remained devot- 
edly loyal to him throughout his life, and to his memory 
after death, were his mother, his sister, and his brother Paul. 

Like Byron, Musset assumed an air of melancholy in his 
life and often let it appear in his work, especially in his 
poetry. His prose stories number only about a dozen, and 
all have the lively charm that goes with the chronicle of 
young love. 

159 



160 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

Musset's genius cared little for time or place. He is 
equally fascinating whether his scene is laid in remote times 
or in the Paris of his own day. Croisilles (1839), selected 
for this volume, is a story of Havre during the reign of 
Louis XV. 

CROISILLES* 

• By ALFRED DE MUSSET 
I 

I 

At THE'beginning of the reign of Louis XV, a young man 
named Croisilles, son of a goldsmith, was returning from 
Paris to Havre, his native town. He had been intrusted 
by his father with the transaction of some business, and his 
trip to the great city having turned out satisfactorily, the 
joy of bringing good news caused him to walk the sixty 
leagues more gaily and briskly than was his wont; for, 
though he had a rather large sum of money in his pocket, 
he traveled on foot for pleasure. He was a good-tempered 
fellow, and not without wit, but so very thoughtless and 
flighty that people looked upon him as being rather weak- 
minded. His doublet buttoned awry, his periwig flying to 
the wind, his hat under his arm, he followed the banks of 
the Seine, at times finding enjoyment in his own thoughts 
and again indulging in snatches of song; up at daybreak, 
supping at wayside inns, and always charmed with this stroll 
of his through one of the most beautiful regions of France. 
Plundering the apple-trees of Normandy on his way, he 
puzzled his brain to find rhymes (for all these rattlepates 
are more or less poets), and tried hard to turn out a mad- 
rigal for a certain fair damsel of his native place. She was 
no less than a daughter of a fermier-general, Mademoiselle 
Godeau, the pearl of Havre, a rich heiress, and much 
* Copyright, 1888, by Brentano's. 



CROISILLES 161 

courted. Croisilles was not received at M. Godeau's other- 
wise than in a casual sort of way, that is to say, he had 
sometimes himself taken there articles of jewelry purchased 
at his father's. M. Godeau, whose somewhat vulgar sur- 
name ill-fitted his immense fortune, avenged himself by his 
arrogance for the stigma of his birth, and showed himself 
on all occasions enormously and pitilessly rich. He cer- 
tainly was not the man to allow the son of a goldsmith to 
enter his drawing-room; but, as Mademoiselle Godeau had 
the most beautiful eyes in the world, and Croisilles was not 
ill-favored; and as nothing can prevent a fine fellow from 
falling in love with a pretty girl, Croisilles adored Madem- 
oiselle Godeau, who did not seem vexed thereat. Thus was 
he thinking of her as he turned his steps toward Havre; 
and, as he had never reflected seriously upon anything, in- 
stead of thinking of the invincible obstacles which separated 
him from his lady-love, he busied himself only with finding a 
rhyme for the Christian name she bore. Mademoiselle 
Godeau was called Julie^ and the rhyme was found easily 
enough. So Croisilles, having reached Honfleur, embarked 
with a satisfied heart, his money and his madrigal in his 
pocket, and as soon as he jumped ashore ran to the paternal 
house. 

He found the shop closed, and knocked again and again, 
not without astonishment and apprehension, for it was not a 
holiday ; but nobody came. He called his father, but in vain. 
He went to a neighbor's to ask what had happened ; instead 
of replying, the neighbor turned away, as though not wishing 
to recognize him. Croisilles repeated his questions; he 
learned that his father, his affairs having long been in an 
embarrassed condition, had just become bankrupt, and had 
fled to America, abandoning to his creditors all that he 
possessed. 

Not realizing as yet the extent of his misfortune, Croisilles 



162 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

felt overwhelmed by the thought that he might never again 
see his father. It seemed to him incredible that he should be 
thus suddenly abandoned ; he tried to force an entrance into 
the store ; but was given to understand that the official seals 
had been affixed; so he sat down on a stone, and giving way 
to his grief , began to weep piteously, deaf to the consolations 
of those around him, never ceasing to call his father's name, 
though he knew him to be already far away. At last he rose, 
ashamed at seeing a crowd about him, and, in the most pro- 
found despair, turned his steps towards the harbor. 

On reaching the pier, he walked straight before him like 
a man in a trance, who knows neither where he is going, nor 
what is to become of him. He saw himself irretrievably lost, 
possessing no longer a shelter, no means of rescue and, of 
course, no longer any friends. Alone, wandering on the sea- 
shore, he felt tempted to drown himself, then and there. 
Just at the moment when, yielding to this thought, he was 
advancing to the edge of a high cliff, an old servant named 
Jean, who had served his family for a number of years^. 
arrived on the scene. 

"Ah ! my poor Jean !" he exclaimed, "you know all that has 
happened since I went away. Is it possible that my father 
could leave us without warning, without farewell ?" 

"He is gone/' answered Jean, "but indeed not without 
saying good-bye to you." 

At the same time he drew from his pocket a letter, which 
he gave to his young master. Croisilles recognized the hand- 
writing of his father, and, before opening the letter, kissed it 
rapturously ; but it contained only a few words. Instead of 
feeling his trouble softened, it seemed to the young man still 
harder to bear. Honorable until then, and known as such, 
the old gentleman, ruined by an unforeseen disaster (the 
bankruptcy of a partner), had left for his son nothing but a 
few commonplace words of consolation, and no hope, except, 



CROISILLES 163 

perhaps, that vague hope without aim or reason, which con- 
stitutes, it is said, the last possession one loses. 

"Jean, my friend, you carried me in your arms," said 
Croisilles, when he had read the letter, "and you certainly 
are today the only being who loves me at all; it is a very 
sweet thing to me, but a very sad one for you ; for, as sure as 
my father embarked there, I will throw myself into the same 
sea which is bearing him away; not befofe you nor at once, 
but some day I will do it, for I am lost." 

"What can you do?" replied Jean, not seeming to have 
understood, but holding fast to the skirt of Croisilles' coat. 
"What can you do, my dear master? Your father was de- 
ceived; he was expecting money which did not come, and it 
was no small amount, either. Could he stay here? I have 
seen him, sir, as he made his fortune, during the thirty years 
that I served him ; I have seen him working, attending to his 
business, the crown-pieces 1 coming in one by one. He was 
an honorable man, and skillful; they took a cruel advantage 
of him. Within the last few days, I was still there, and as 
fast as the crowns came in, I saw them go out of the shop 
again. Your father paid all he could, for a whole day, and, 
when his desk was empty, he could not help telling me, 
pointing to a drawer where but six francs 2 remained : 
'There were a hundred thousand francs there this morning !' 
That does not look like a rascally failure, sir? There is 
nothing in it that can dishonor you." 

"I have no more doubt of my father's integrity," answered 
Croisilles; "than I have of his misfortune. Neither do I 
doubt his affection. But I wish I could have kissed him, for 
what is to become of me ? I am not accustomed to poverty, I 
have not the necessary cleverness to build up my fortune. 
And, if I had it, my father is gone. It took him thirty years, 

1. Obsolete French coins worth $1.12. 

2. A franc is worth twenty cents. 



164 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

how long would it take me to repair this disaster? Much 
longer. And will he be living then? Certainly not; he will 
die over there, and I cannot even go and find him ; I can j oin 
him only by dying." 

Utterly distressed as Croisilles was, he possessed much 
religious feeling. Although his despondency made him wish 
for death, he hesitated to take his life. At the first words of 
this interview, he had taken hold of old Jean's arm, and thus 
both returned to the town. When they had entered the 
streets and the sea was no longer so near : 

"It seems to me, sir," said Jean, "that a good man has a 
right to live and that a misfortune proves nothing. Since 
your father has not killed himself, thank God, how can you 
think of dying? Since there is no dishonor in his case, and 
all the town knows it is so, what would they think of you? 
That you felt unable to endure poverty. It would be neither 
brave nor Christian ; for, at the very worst, what is there to 
frighten you? There are plenty of people born poor, and 
who have never had either mother or father to help them on. 
I know that we are not all alike, but, after all, nothing is 
impossible to God. What would you do in such a case? 
Your father was not born rich, far from it, — meaning no 
offense — and that is perhaps what consoles him now. If 
you had been here, this last month, it would have given you 
courage. Yes, sir, a man may be ruined, nobody is secure 
from bankruptcy; but your father, I make bold to say, has 
borne himself, through it all, like a man, though he did leave 
us so hastily. But what could he do? It is not every day 
that a vessel starts for America. I accompanied him to the 
wharf, and if you had seen how sad he was ! How he charged 
me to take care of you ; to send him news from you ! — Sir, 
it is a right poor idea you have, that throwing the helve 
after the hatchet. Every one has his time of trial in this 
world, and I was a soldier before I was a servant. I suf- 



CROISILLES 165 

fered severely at the time, but I was young; I was of your 
age, sir, and it seemed to me that Providence could not have 
spoken His last word to a young man of twenty-five. Why 
do you wish to prevent the kind God from repairing the evil 
that has befallen you? Give Him time, and all will come 
right. If I niigjit advise you, I would say, just wait two 
or three years, and I will answer for it, you will come out 
all right. It is always easy to go out of this world. Why 
will you seize an unlucky moment?" 

While Jean was thus exerting himself to persuade his 
master, the latter walked in silence, and, as those who suffer 
often do, was looking this way and that as though seeking for 
something which might bind him to life. As chance would 
have it, at this juncture, Mademoiselle Godeau, the daughter 
of the fermier-general, happened to pass with her governess. 
The mansion in which she lived was not far distant; Crois- 
illes saw her enter it. This meeting produced on him more 
effect than all the reasonings in the world. I have said that 
he was rather erratic, and nearly always yielded to the first 
impulse. Without hesitating an instant, and without ex- 
planation, he suddenly left the arm of his old servant, and 
crossing the street, knocked at Monsieur Godeau's door. 

II 

When we try to picture to ourselves, nowadays, what was 
called a "financier" in times gone by, we invariably imagine 
enormous corpulence, short legs, a gigantic wig, and a broad 
face with a triple chin, — and it is not without reason that 
we have become accustomed to form such a picture of such a 
personage. Everyone knows to what great abuses the royal 
taxfarming led, and it seems as though there were a law of 
nature which renders fatter than the rest of mankind those 
who fatten, not only upon their own laziness, but also upon 
the work of others. 



166 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

Monsieur Godeau, among financiers, was one of the most 
classical to be found, — that is to say, one of the fattest. At 
the present time he had the gout, which was nearly as fash- 
ionable in his day as the nervous headache is in ours. 
Stretched upon a lounge, his eyes half-closed, he was cod- 
dling himself in the coziest corner of a dainty boudoir. The 
panel-mirrors which surrounded him, maj estically duplicated 
on every side his enormous person ; bags filled with gold cov- 
ered the table; around him, the furniture, the wainscot, the 
doors, the locks, the mantel-piece, the ceiling were gilded ; so 
was his coat. I do not know but that his brain was gilded 
too. He was calculating the issue of a little business affair 
which could not fail to bring him a few thousand louis ; 3 
and was even deigning to smile over it to himself when 
Croisilles was announced. The young man entered with an 
humble, but resolute air, and with every outward manifesta- 
tion of that inward tumult with which we find no difficulty 
in crediting a man who is longing to drown himself. Mon- 
sieur Godeau was a little surprised at this unexpected visit; 
then he thought his daughter had been buying some trifle, 
and was confirmed in that thought by seeing her appear 
almost at the same time with the young man. He made a 
sign to Croisilles not to sit down but to speak. The young 
lady seated herself on a sofa, and Croisilles, remaining 
standing, expressed himself in these terms : 

''Sir, my father has failed. The bankruptcy of a partner 
has forced him to suspend his payments, and unable to wit- 
ness his own shame, he has fled to America, after having paid 
his last sou 4 to his creditors. I was absent when all this 
happened; I have just come back and have known of these 
events only two hours. I am absolutely without resources, 
and determined to die. It is very probable that, on leaving 

?,. A gold coin worth $4.00. 
4. One cent. 



CROISILLES 167 

your house, I shall throw myself into the water. In all 
probability, I would already have done so, if I had not 
chanced to meet, at the very moment, this young lady, your 
daughter. I love her, sir, from the very depths of my heart ; 
for two years I have been in love with her, and my silence, 
until now, proves better than anything else the respect I feel 
for her; but today, in declaring my passion to you, I fulfill 
an imperative duty, and I would think I was offending God, 
if, before giving myself over to death, I did not come to ask 
you Mademoiselle Julie in marriage. I have not the slightest 
hope that you will grant this request ; but I have to make it, 
nevertheless, for I am a good Christian, sir, and when a good 
Christian sees himself come to such a point of misery that 
he can no longer suffer life, he must at least, to extenuate his 
crime, exhaust all the chances which remain to him before 
taking the final and fatal step/' 

At the beginning of this speech, Monsieur Godeau had sup- 
posed that the young man came to borrow money, and so he 
prudently threw his handkerchief over the bags that were 
lying around him, preparing in advance a refusal, and a 
polite one, for he always felt some good-will toward the 
father of Croisilles. But when he had heard the young man 
to the end, and understood the purport of his visit, he never 
doubted one moment but that the poor fellow had gone com- 
pletely mad. He was at first tempted to ring the bell and 
have him put out ; but, noticing his firm demeanor, his deter- 
mined look, the f ermier-general took pity on so inoffensive a 
case of insanity. He merely told his daughter to retire, so 
that she might be no longer exposed to hearing such impro- 
prieties. 

While Croisilles was speaking, Mademoiselle Godeau had 
blushed as a peach in the month of August. At her father's 
bidding, she retired, the young man making her a profound 
bow, which she did not seem to notice. Left alone with 



168 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

Croisilles, Monsieur Godeau coughed, rose, then dropped 
again upon the cushions, and, trying to assume a paternal 
air, delivered himself to the following effect : 

"My boy," said he, "I am willing to believe that you are 
not poking fun at me, but you have really lost your head. I 
not only excuse this proceeding, but I consent not to punish 
you for it. I am sorry that your poor devil of a father has 
become bankrupt and has skipped. It is indeed very sad, 
and I quite understand that such a misfortune should affect 
your brain. Besides, I wish to do something for you; so 
take this stool and sit down there." 

"It is useless, sir/' answered Croisilles. "If you refuse 
me, as I see you do, I have nothing left but to take my leave. 
I wish you every good fortune." 

"And where are you going?" 

"To write to my father and say good-bye to him." 

"Eh ! the devil ! Any one would swear you were speaking 
the truth. I'll be damned if I don't think you are going to 
drown yourself." 

"Yes, sir; at least I think so, if my courage does not for- 
sake me." 

"That's a bright idea ! Fie on you ! How can you be such 
a fool? Sit down, sir, I tell you, and listen to me." 

Monsieur Godeau had just made a very wise reflection, 
which was that it is never agreeable to have it said that a 
man, whoever he may be, threw himself into the water on 
leaving your house. He therefore coughed once more, took 
his snuff-box, cast a careless glance upon his shirtfrill, and 
continued : 

"It is evident that you are nothing but a simpleton, a fool, 
a regular baby. You do not know what you are saying. You 
are ruined, that's what has happened to you. But, my dear 
friend, all that is not enough; one must reflect upon the 
things of this world. If you came to ask me — well, good 



CROISILLES 169 

advice, for instance, — I might give it to you; but what is it 
you are after ? You are in love with my daughter ?" 

"Yes, sir, and I repeat to you, that I am far from suppos- 
ing that you can give her to me in marriage ; but as there is 
nothing in the world but that, which could prevent me from 
dying, if you believe in God, as I do not doubt you do, you 
will understand the reason that brings me here." 

"Whether I believe in God or not, is no business of yours. 
I do not intend to be questioned. Answer me first: where 
have you seen my daughter ?" 

"In my father's shop, and in this house, when I brought 
jewelry for Mademoiselle Julie."' 

"Who told you her name was Julie? What are we coming 
to, great heavens ! But be her name Julie or Javotte, do you 
know what is wanted in any one who aspires to the hand of 
the daughter of a f ermier-general ?" 

"Xo, I am completely ignorant of it, unless it is to be as 
rich as she." 

"Something more is necessary, my boy; you must have a 
name." 

"Well ! my name is Croisilles." 

"Your name is Croisilles, poor wretch ! Do you call that a 
name r 

"Upon my soul and conscience, sir, it seems to me to be as 
good a name as Godeau." 

"You are very impertinent, sir, and you shall rue it." 

"Indeed, sir, do not be angry; I had not the least idea of 
offending you. If you see in what I said anything-to wound 
you, and wish to punish me for it, there is no need to get 
angry. Have I not told you that on leaving here I am going 
straight to drown myself ?" 

Although M. Godeau had promised himself to send Crois- 
illes away as gently as possible, in order to avoid all scandal, 
his prudence could not resist the vexation of his wounded 



170 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

pride. The interview to which he had to resign himself was 
monstrous enough in itself; it may be imagined then, what 
he felt at hearing himself spoken to in such terms. 

"Listen," he said, almost beside himself, and determined 
to close the matter at any cost. "You are not such a fool that 
you cannot understand a word of common sense. Are you 
rich? No. Are you noble? Still less so. What is this 
frenzy that brings you here? You come to worry me; you 
think you are doing something clever; you know perfectly 
well that it is useless ; you wish to make me responsible for 
your death. Have you any right to complain of me? Do I 
owe a sou to your father ? Is it my fault that you have come 
to this ? Mon Dieu ! When a man is going to drown himself, 
he keeps quiet about it — " 

"That is what I am going to do now. I am your very 
humble servant." 

"One moment! It shall not be said that you had recourse 
to me in vain. There, my boy, here are three louis d'or; go 
and have dinner in the kitchen, and let me hear no more, 
about you." 

"Much obliged; I am not hungry, and I have no use for 
your money." 

So Croisilles left the room, and the financier, having set 
his conscience at rest by the offer he had just made, settled 
himself more comfortably in his chair, and resumed his 
meditations. 

Mademoiselle Godeau, during this time, was not so far 
away as one might suppose; she had, it is true, withdrawn 
in obedience to her father ; but, instead of going to her room, 
she had remained listening behind the door. If the extrav- 
agance of Croisilles seemed incredible to her, still she found 
nothing to offend her in it; for love, since the world has 
existed, has never passed as an insult. On the other hand, 
as it was not possible to doubt the despair of the young man, 



CROISILLES 171 

Mademoiselle Godeau found herself a victim, at one and the 
same time, to the two sentiments most dangerous to women — 
compassion and curiosity. When she saw the interview at an 
end, and Croisilles ready to come out, she rapidly crossed the 
drawing-room where she stood, not wishing to be surprised 
eavesdropping, and hurried towards her apartment; but she 
almost immediately retraced her steps. The idea that per- 
haps Croisilles was really going to put an end to his life 
troubled her in spite of herself. Scarcely aware of what she 
was doing, she walked to meet him; the drawing-room was 
large, and the two young people came slowly towards each 
other. Croisilles was as pale as death, and Mademoiselle 
Godeau vainly sought words to express her feelings. In 
passing beside him, she let fall on the floor a bunch of violets 
which she held in her hand. He at once bent down and 
picked up the bouquet in order to give it back to her, but 
instead of taking it, she passed on without uttering a word, 
and entered her father's room. Croisilles, alone again, put 
the flowers in his breast, and left the house with a troubled 
heart, not knowing what to think of his adventure. 

Ill 

Scarcely had he taken a few step in the street, when he 
saw his faithful friend Jean running towards him with a 
joyful face. 

"What has happened ?" he asked; "have you news to tell 
me: 

"Yes/' replied Jean; "I have to tell you that the seals have 
been officially broken and that you can enter your home. All 
your father's debts being paid, you remain the owner of the 
house. It is true that all the money and all the jewels have 
been taken away ; but at least the house belongs to you, and 
you have not lost everything. I have been running about for 



172 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

an hour, not knowing what had become of you, and I hope, 
my dear master, that you will now be wise enough to take a 
reasonable course. " 

"What course do you wish me to take?" 

"Sell this house, sir, it is all your fortune. It will bring you 
about thirty thousand francs. With that at any rate you will 
not die of hunger ; and what is to prevent you from buying a 
little stock in trade, and starting business for yourself ? You 
would surely prosper." 

"We shall see about this," answered Croisilles, as he hur- 
ried to the street where his home was. He was eager to see 
the paternal roof again. But when he arrived there so sad 
a spectacle met his gaze, that he had scarcely the courage to 
enter. The shop was in utter disorder, the rooms deserted, 
his father's alcove empty. Everything presented to his eyes 
the wretchedness of utter ruin. Not a chair remained; all 
the drawers had been ransacked, the till broken open, the 
chest taken away ; nothing had escaped the greedy search of 
creditors and lawyers ; who, after having pillaged the house, 
had gone, leaving the doors open, as though to testify to all 
passers-by how neatly their work was done. 

"This, then," exclaimed Croisilles, "is all that remains 
after thirty years of work and a respectable life, — and all 
through the failure to have ready, on a given day, money 
enough to honor a signature imprudently given !" 

While the young man walked up and down given over to 
the saddest thoughts, Jean seemed very much embarrassed. 
He supposed that his master was without ready money, and 
that he might perhaps not even have dined. He was there- 
fore trying to think of some way to question him on the 
subject, and to offer him, in case of need, some part of his 
savings. After having tortured his mind for a quarter of 
an hour to try and hit upon some way of leading up to the 
subject, he could find nothing better than to come up to Crois- 



CROISILLES 173 

illes, and ask him, in a kindly voice : 

"Sir, do you still like roast partridges ?" 

The poor man uttered this question in a tone at once so 
comical and so touching, that Croisilles, in spite of his sad- 
ness, could not refrain from laughing. 

"And why do you ask me that?" said he. 

"My wife," replied Jean, "is cooking me some for dinner, 
sir, and if by chance you still liked them — " 

Croisilles had completely forgotten till now the money 
which he was bringing back to his father. Jean's proposal 
reminded him that his pockets were full of gold. 

"I thank you with all my heart/' said he to the old man, 
"and I accept your dinner with pleasure; but, if you are 
anxious about my fortune, be reassured. I have more 
money than I need to have a good supper this evening, which 
you, in your turn, will share with me/' 

Saying this, he laid upon the mantel four well-filled 
purses, which he emptied, each containing fifty louis. 

"Although this sum does not belong to me/' he added, "I 
can use it for a day or two. To whom must I go to have it 
forwarded to my father?" 

"Sir," replied Jean, eagerly, "your father especially 
charged me to tell you that this money belongs to you, and, 
if I did not speak of it before, it was because I did not know 
how your affairs in Paris had turned out. Where he has 
gone your father will want for nothing; he will lodge with 
one of your correspondents, who will receive him most gladly ; 
he has moreover taken with him enough for his immediate 
needs, for he was quite sure of still leaving behind more than 
was necessary to pay all his just debts. All that he has left, 
sir, is yours ; he says so himself in his letter, and I am espe- 
cially charged to repeat it to you. That gold is, therefore, 
legitimately your property, as this house in which we are 
now. I can repeat to you the very words your father said 



174 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

to me on embarking: 'May my son forgive me for leaving 
him; may he remember that I am still in the world only to 
love him, and let him use what remains after my debts are 
paid as though it were his inheritance/ Those, sir, are his 
own expressions ; so put this back in your pocket, and, since 
you accept my dinner, pray let us go home." 

The honest joy which shone in Jean's eyes, left no doubt 
in the mind of Croisilles. The words of his father had moved 
him to such a point that he could not restrain his tears; on 
the other hand, at such a moment, four thousand francs were 
no bagatelle. As to the house, it was not an available re- 
source, for one could realize on it only by selling it, and that 
was both difficult and slow. All this, however, could not but 
make a considerable change in the situation the young man 
found himself in; so he felt suddenly moved — shaken in his 
dismal resolution, and, so to speak, both sad and, at the same 
time, relieved of much of his distress. After having closed 
the shutters of the shop, he left the house with Jean, and as 
he once more crossed the town, could not help thinking how 
small a thing our affections are, since they sometimes serve 
to make us find an unforeseen joy in the faintest ray of hope. 
It was with this thought that he sat down to dinner beside 
his old servant, who did not fail, during the repast, to make 
every effert to cheer him. 

Heedless people have a happy fault. They are easily cast 
down, but they have not even the trouble to console them- 
selves, so changeable is their mind. It would be a mistake 
to think them, on that account, insensible or selfish; on the 
contrary they perhaps feel more keenly than others and are 
but too prone to blow their brains out in a moment of despair ; 
but, this moment once passed, if they are still alive, they must 
dine, they must eat, they must drink, as usual; only to melt 
into tears again, at bed-time. Joy and pain do not glide over 
them but pierce them through like arrows. Kind, hot-headed 



CROISILLES 175 

natures which know how to suffer, but not how to lie, through 
which one can clearly read, — not fragile and empty like 
glass, but solid and transparent like rock crystal. 

After having clinked glasses with Jean, Croisilles, instead 
of drowning himself, went to the play. Standing at the back 
of the pit, he drew from his bosom Mademoiselle Godeau's 
bouquet, and, as he breathed the perfume in deep meditation, 
he began to think in a calmer spirit about his adventure of 
the morning. As soon as he had pondered over it for awhile, 
he saw clearly the truth ; that is to say, that the young lady, 
in leaving the bouquet in his hands, and in refusing to take 
it back, had wished to give him a mark of interest; for other- 
wise this refusal and this silence could only have been marks 
of contempt, and such a supposition was not possible. Crois- 
illes, therefore, judged that Mademoiselle Godeau's heart 
was of a softer grain than her father's and he remembered 
distinctly that the young lady's face, when she crossed the 
drawing-room, had expressed an emotion the more true that 
it seemed involuntary. But was this emotion one of love, or 
only of sympathy? Or was it perhaps something of still less 
importance, — mere commonplace pity? Had Mademoiselle 
Godeau feared to see him die — him, Croisilles — or merely to 
be the cause of the death of a man, no matter what man? 
Although withered and almost leafless, the bouquet still re- 
tained so exquisite an odor and so brave a look, that in 
breathing it and looking at it, Croisilles could not help hop- 
ing. It was a thin garland of roses round a bunch of violets. 
What mysterious depths of sentiment an Oriental might have 
read in these flowers, by interpreting their language ! But 
after all, he need not be an Oriental in this case. The flowers 
which fall from the breast of a pretty woman, in Europe, as 
in the East, are never mute ; were they but to tell what they 
have seen while reposing in that lovely bosom, it would be 
enough for a lover, and this, in fact, they do. Perfumes have 



176 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

more than one resemblance to love, and there are even people 
who think love to be but a sort of perfume; it is true the 
flowers which exhale it are the most beautiful in creation. 

While Croisilles mused thus, paying very little attention 
to the tragedy that was being acted at the time, Mademoiselle 
Godeau herself appeared in a box opposite. 

The idea did not occur to the young man that, if she should 
notice him, she might think it very strange to find the would- 
be suicide there after what had transpired in the morning. 
He, on the contrary, bent all his efforts towards getting 
nearer to her ; but he could not succeed. A fifth-rate actress 
from Paris had come to play Merope, 5 and the crowd was so 
dense that one could not move. For lack of anything better, 
Croisilles had to content himself with fixing his gaze upon his 
lady-love, not lifting his eyes from her for a moment. He 
noticed that she seemed pre-occupied and moody, and that 
she spoke to every one with a sort of repugnance. Her box 
was surrounded, as may be imagined, by all the fops of the 
neighborhood, each of whom passed several times before her 
in the gallery, totally unable to enter the box, of which her 
father filled more than three-fourths. Croisilles noticed fur- 
ther that she was not using her opera-glasses, nor was she 
listening to the play. Her elbows resting on the balustrade, 
her chin in her hand, with her far-away look, she seemed, in 
all her sumptuous apparel, like some statue of Venus dis- 
guised en marquise. The display of her dress and her hair, 
her rouge, beneath which one could guess her paleness, all 
the splendor of her toilet, did but the more distinctly bring 
out the immobility of her countenance. Never had Croisilles 
seen her so beautiful. Having found means, between the acts, 
to escape from the crush, he hurried off to look at her from 
the passage leading to her box, and, strange to say, scarcely 
had he reached it, when Mademoiselle Godeau, who had not 

5. A play by Voltaire. 



CROISILLES 171 

stirred for the last hour, turned round. She started slightly 
as she noticed him and only cast a glance at him; then she 
resumed her former attitude. Whether that glance expressed 
surprise, anxiety, pleasure, or love; whether it meant "What, 
not dead I" or "God be praised ! There you are, living!" — I 
do not pretend to explain. Be that as it may; at that glance, 
Croisilles inwardly swore to himself to die or gain her love. 

IV 

Of all the obstacles which hinder the smooth course of 
love, the greatest is, without doubt, what is called false 
shame, which is indeed a very potent obstacle. 

Croisilles was not troubled with this unhappy failing, 
which both pride and timidity combine to produce; he was 
not one of those who, for whole months, hover round the 
woman they love, like a cat round a caged bird. As soon as 
he had given up the idea of drowning himself, he thought 
only of letting his dear Julie know that he lived solely for 
her. But how could he tell her so ? Should he present him- 
self a second time at the mansion of the fermier-general, it 
was but too certain that M. Godeau would have him ejected. 
Julie, when she happened to take a walk, never went without 
her maid ; it was therefore useless to undertake to follow her. 
To pass the nights under the windows of one's beloved is a 
folly dear to lovers, but, in the present case, it would cer- 
tainly prove vain. I said before that Croisilles was very 
religious ; it therefore never entered his mind to seek to meet 
his lady-love at church. As the best way, though the most 
dangerous, is to write to people when one cannot speak to 
them in person, he decided on the very next day to write to 
the young lady. 

His letter possessed, naturally, neither order nor reason. 
It read somewhat as follows : 



178 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"Mademoiselle, — Tell me exactly, I beg of you, what for- 
tune one must possess to be able to pretend to your hand. I 
am asking you a strange question ; but I love you so desper- 
ately, that it is impossible for me not to ask it, and you are 
the only person in the world to whom I can address it. It 
seemed to me, last evening, that you looked at me at the play. 
I had wished to die; would to God I were indeed dead, if I 
am mistaken, and if that look was not meant for me. Tell 
me if Fate can be so cruel as to let a man deceive himself in 
a manner at once so sad and so sweet. I believe that you 
commanded me to live. You are rich, beautiful. I know it. 
Your father is arrogant and miserly, and you have a right 
to be proud; but I love you, and the rest is a dream. Fix 
your charming eyes on me ; think of what love can do, when I 
who suffer so cruelly, who must stand in fear of everything, 
feel, nevertheless, an inexpressible joy in writing you this 
mad letter, which will perhaps bring down your anger upon 
me. But think also, mademoiselle, that you are a little to 
blame for this, my folly. Why did you drop that bouquet? 
Put yourself for an instant, if possible, in my place; I dare 
think that you love me, and I dare ask you to tell me so. 
Forgive me, I beseech you. I would give my life's blood to 
be sure of not offending you, and to see you listening to my 
love with that angel smile which belongs only to you. 

"Whatever you may do, your image remains mine ; you can 
remove it only by tearing out my heart. As long as your look 
lives in my remembrance, as long as the bouquet keeps a 
trace of its perfume, as long as a word will tell of love, I will 
cherish hope." 

Having sealed his letter, Croisilles went out and walked 
up and down the street opposite the Godeau mansion, waiting 
for a servant to come out. Chance, which always serves mys- 
terious loves, when it can do so without compromising itself, 



CROISILLES 179 

willed it that Mademoiselle Julie's maid should have ar- 
ranged to purchase a cap on that day. She was going to the 
milliner's when Croisilles accosted her, slipped a louis into 
her hand; and asked her to take charge of his letter. The 
bargain was soon struck; the servant took the money to pay 
for her cap and promised to do the errand out of gratitude. 
Croisilles, full of joy, went home and sat at his door awaiting 
an answer. 

Before speaking of this answer, a word must be said about 
Mademoiselle Godeau. She was not quite free from the van- 
ity of her father, but her good nature was ever uppermost. 
She was, in the full meaning of the term, a spoilt child. She 
habitually spoke very little, and never was she seen with a 
needle in her hand ; she spent her days at her toilet, and her 
evenings on the sofa, not seeming to hear the conversation 
going on around her. As regards her dress, she was pro- 
digiously coquettish, and her own face was surely what she* 
thought most of on earth. A wrinkle in her collarette, an 
ink-spot on her finger, would have distressed her ; and, when 
her dress pleased her, nothing can describe the last look 
which she cast at her mirror before leaving the room. She 
showed neither taste nor aversion for the pleasures in which 
young ladies usually delight. She went to balls willingly 
enough, and renounced going to them without a show of 
temper, sometimes without motive. The play wearied her, and 
she was in the constant habit of falling asleep there. When 
her father, who worshiped her, proposed to make her some' 
present of her own choice, she took an hour to decide, not 
being able to think of anything she cared for. When M. 
Godeau gave a reception or a dinner, it often happened that 
Julie would not appear in the drawing-room, and at such 
times she passed the evening alone in her own room, in full 
dress, walking up and down, her fan in her hand. If a com- 
pliment was addressed to her, she turned away her head, 



180 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

and if any one attempted to pay court to her, she responded 
only by a look at once so dazzling and so serious as to dis- 
concert even the boldest. Never had a sally made her laugh ; 
never had an air in an opera, a flight of tragedy, moved her ; 
indeed, never had her heart given a sign of life; and, on 
seeing her pass in all the splendor of her nonchalant loveli- 
ness one might have taken her for a beautiful somnambulist, 
walking through the world as in a trance. 

So much indifference and coquetry did not seem easy to 
understand. Some said she loved nothing, others that she 
loved nothing but herself. A single word, however, suffices 
to explain her character, — she was waiting. From the age of 
fourteen she had heard it ceaselessly repeated that nothing 
was so charming as she. She was convinced of this, and that 
was why she paid so much attention to dress. In failing to 
do honor to her own person, she would have thought herself 
guilty of sacrilege. She walked, in her beauty, so to speak, 
like a child in its holiday dress; but she was very far from 
thinking that her beauty was to remain useless. Beneath 
her apparent unconcern she had a will, secret, inflexible, and 
the more potent the better it was concealed. The coquetry 
of ordinary women, which spends itself in ogling, in simper- 
ing, and in smiling, seemed to her a childish, vain, almost 
contemptible way of fighting with shadows. She felt herself 
in possession of a treasure, and she disdained to stake it piece 
by piece ; she needed an adversary worthy of herself ; but, too 
accustomed to see her wishes anticipated, she did not seek 
that adversary ; it may even be said that she felt astonished 
at his failing to present himself. For the four or five years 
that she had been out in society and had conscientiously dis- 
played her flowers, her furbelows, and her beautiful should- 
ers, it seemed to her inconceivable that she had not yet in- 
spired some great passion. Had she said what was really 
behind her thoughts, she certainly would have replied to her 



CROISILLES 181 

many flatterers: "Well! if it is true that I am so beautiful, 
why do you not blow your brains out for me?" An answer 
which many other young girls might make, and which more 
than one who says nothing hides away in a corner of her 
heart, not far perhaps from the tip of her tongue. 

What is there, indeed, in the world, more tantalizing for a 
woman than to be young, rich, beautiful, to look at herself in 
her mirror and see herself charmingly dressed, worthy in 
every way to please, fully disposed to allow herself to be 
loved, and to have to say to herself: "I am admired, I am 
praised, all the world thinks me charming, but nobody loves 
me. My gown is by the best maker, my laces are superb, my 
coiffure is irreproachable, my face the most beautiful on 
earth, my figure slender, my foot prettily turned, and all this 
helps me to nothing but to go and yawn in the corner of some 
drawing-room! If a young man speaks to me he treats me 
.as a child ; if I am asked in marriage, it is for my dowry ; if 
somebody presses my hand in a dance, it is sure to be some 
provincial fop; as soon as I appear anywhere, I excite a 
murmur of admiration; but nobody speaks low, in my ear, a 
word that makes my heart beat. I hear impertinent men 
praising me in loud tones, a couple of feet away, and never 
a look of humbly sincere adoration meets mine. Still I have 
an ardent soul full of life, and I am not, by any means, only 
a pretty doll to be shown about, to be made to dance at a bail, 
to be dressed by a maid in the morning and undressed at 
night — beginning the whole thing over again the next day." 

That is what Mademoiselle Godeau had many times said 
to herself ; and there were hours when that thought inspired 
her with so gloomy a feeling that she remained mute and 
almost motionless for a whole day. When Croisilles wrote 
her, she was in just such a fit of ill-humor. She had just 
been taking her chocolate and was deep in meditation, 
stretched upon a lounge, when her maid entered and handed 



182 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

her the letter with a mysterious air. She looked at the 
address, and not recognizing the handwriting, fell again to 
musing. The maid then saw herself forced to explain what 
it was, which she did with a rather disconcerted air, not 
being at all sure how the young lady would take the matter. 
Mademoiselle Godeau listened without moving, then opened 
the letter, and cast only a glance at it ; she at once asked for 
a sheet of paper, and nonchalantly wrote these few words: 

"No, sir, I assure you I am not proud. If you had only a 
hundred thousand crowns, I would willingly marry you." 

Such was the reply which the maid at once took to Crois- 
illes, who gave her another louis for her trouble. 



A hundred thousand crowns are not found "in a don- 
key's hoof-print," and if Croisilles had been suspicious he 
might have thought in reading Mademoiselle Godeau's letter 
that she was either crazy or laughing at him. He thought 
neither, for he only saw in it that his darling Julie loved 
him, and that he must have a hundred thousand crowns, and 
he dreamed from that moment of nothing but trying to secure 
them. 

He possessed two hundred louis in cash, plus a house 
which, as I have said, might be worth about thirty thousand 
francs. What was to be done? How was he to go about 
transfiguring these thirty- four thousand francs, at a jump, 
into three hundred thousand. The first idea which came 
into the mind of the young man was to find some way of 
staking his whole fortune on the toss-up of a coin, but for 
that he must sell the house. Croisilles therefore began by 
putting a notice upon the door, stating that his house was for 
sale ; then, while dreaming what he would do with the money 
that he would get for it, he awaited a purchaser. 

A week went by, then another; not a single purchaser 



CROISILLES 183 

applied. More and more distressed, Croisilles spent these 
days with Jean, and despair was taking possession of him 
once more, when a Jewish broker rang at the door. 

"This house is for sale, sir, is it not? Are you the owner 
of it?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"And how much is it worth ?" 

"Thirty thousand francs, I believe; at least I have heard 
my father say so." 

The Jew visited all the rooms, went upstairs and down 
into the cellar, knocking on the walls, counting the steps of 
the staircase, turning the doors on their hinges and the keys 
in their locks, opening and closing the windows ; then, at last, 
after having thoroughly examined everything, without saying 
a word and without making the slightest proposal, he bowed 
to Croisilles and retired. 

Croisilles, who for a whole hour had followed him with a 
palpitating heart, as may be imagined, was not a little disap- 
pointed at this silent retreat. He thought that perhaps the 
Jew wished to give himself time to reflect and that he would 
return presently. He waited a week for him, not daring to 
go out for fear of missing his visit, and looking out of the 
windows from morning till night. But it was in vain; the 
Jew did not reappear. Jean, true to his unpleasant role of 
adviser, brought moral pressure to bear to dissuade his mas- 
ter from selling his house in so hasty a manner and for so ex- 
travagant a purpose. Dying of impatience, ennui, and love, 
Croisilles one morning took his two hundred louis and went 
out, determined to tempt fortune with this sum, since he 
could not have more. 

The gaming-houses at that time were not public, and that 
refinement of civilization which enables the first comer to 
ruin himself at all hours, as soon as the wish enters his mind, 
had not vet been invented. 



184 FRENGH SHORT STORIES 

Scarcely was Croisilles in the street before he stopped, not 
knowing where to go to stake his money. He looked at the 
houses of the neighborhood, and eyed them, one after the 
other, striving to discover suspicious appearances that 
might point out to him the object of his search. A good- 
looking young man, splendidly dressed, happened to pass. 
Judging from his mien, he was certainly a young man of 
gentle blood and ample leisure, so Croisilles politely ac- 
costed him. 

"Sir/' he said, "I beg your pardon for the liberty I take. 
I have two hundred louis in my pocket and I am dying either 
to lose them or win more. Could you point out to me some 
respectable place where such things are done? ,, 

At this rather strange speech the young man burst out 
laughing. 

"Upon my word, sir!" answered he, "if you are seeking 
any such wicked place you have but to follow me, for that is 
just where I am going." 

Croisilles followed him, and a few steps farther they both 
entered a house of very attractive appearance, where they 
were received hospitably by an old gentleman of the highest 
breeding. Several young men were already seated round a 
green cloth. Croisilles modestly took a place there, and in 
less than an hour his two hundred louis were gone. 

He came out as sad as a lover can be who thinks himself 
beloved. He had not enough to dine with, but that did not 
cause him any anxiety. 

"What can I do now," he asked himself, "to get money? 
To whom shall I address myself in this town? Who will 
lend me even a hundred louis on this house that I can not 
sell?" 

While he was in this quandary, he met his Jewish broker. 
He did not hesitate to address him, and, featherhead as he 
was, did not fail to tell him the plight he was in. 



CROISILLES 185 

The Jew did not much want to buy the house; he had 
come to see it only through curiosity, or, to speak more ex- 
actly, for the satisfaction of his own conscience, as a passing 
dog goes into a kitchen, the door of which stands open, to see 
if there is nothing to steal. But when he saw Croisilles so 
despondent, so sad, so bereft of all resources, he could not 
resist the temptation to put himself to some inconvenience, 
even, in order to pay for the house. He therefore offered 
him about one-fourth of its value. Croisilles fell upon his 
neck, called him his friend and savior, blindly signed a bar- 
gain that would have made one's hair stand on end, and, on 
the very next day, the possessor of four hundred new louis, 
he once more turned his steps toward the gambling-house 
where he had been so politely and speedily ruined the night 
before. 

On his way, he passed by the wharf. A vessel was about 
leaving; the wind was gentle, the ocean tranquil. On all 
sides, merchants, sailors, officers in uniform were coming and 
going. Porters were carrying enormous bales of merchan- 
dise. Passengers and their friends were exchanging fare- 
wells, small boats were rowing about in all directions; on 
every face could be read fear, impatience, or hope; and, 
amidst all the agitation which surrounded it, the majestic 
vessel swayed gently to and fro under the wind that swelled 
her proud sails. 

"What a grand thing it is," thought Croisilles, "to risk all 
one possesses and go beyond the sea, in perilous search of 
fortune ! How it fills me with emotion to look at this vessel 
setting out on her voyage, loaded with so much wealth, with 
the welfare of so many families ! What joy to see her come 
back again, bringing twice as much as was intrusted to her, 
returning so much prouder and richer than she went away ! 
Why am I not one of those merchants? Why could I not 
stake my four hundred louis in this way ? This immense sea ! 



186 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

What a green cloth, on which to boldly tempt fortune ! Why 
should I not myself buy a few bales of cloth or silk? What 
is to prevent my doing so, since I have gold? Why should 
this captain refuse to take charge of my merchandise ? And 
who knows ? Instead of going and throwing away this — my 
little all; — in a gambling-house, I might double it, I might 
triple it, perhaps, by honest industry. If Julie truly loves 
me, she will wait a few years, she will remain true to me 
until I am able to marry her. Commerce sometimes yields 
greater profits than one thinks ; examples are not wanting in 
this world of wealth gained with astonishing rapidity in this 
way on the changing waves — why should Providence not 
bless an endeavor made for a purpose so laudable, so worthy 
of His assistance? Among these merchants who have accu- 
mulated so much and who send their vessels to the ends of 
the world, more than one has begun with a smaller sum than 
I have now. They have prospered with the help of God; 
why should not I prosper in my turn? It seems to me as 
though a good wind were filling these sails, and this vessel 
inspires confidence. Come ! the die is cast ; I will speak to 
the captain, who seems to be a good fellow ; I will then write 
to Julie, and set out to become a clever and successful 
trader." 

The greatest danger incurred by those who are habitually 
but half crazy, is that of becoming, at times, altogether so. 
The poor fellow, without further deliberation, put his whim 
into execution. To find goods to buy, when one has money 
and knows nothing about the goods, is the easiest thing in the 
world. The captain, to oblige Croisilles, took him to one of 
his friends, a manufacturer, who sold him as much cloth and 
silk as he could pay for. The whole of it, loaded upon a cart, 
was promptly taken on board. Croisilles, delighted and full 
of hope, had himself written in large letters his name upon 
the bales. He watched them being put on board with inex- 



CROISILLES 187 

pressible joy; the hour of departure soon came, and the 
vessel weighed anchor. 

VI 

I need not say that in this transaction, Croisilles had kept 
no money in hand. His house was sold ; and there remained 
to him, for his sole fortune, the clothes he had on his back ; — 
no home, and not a sou. With the best will possible, Jean 
could not suppose that his master was reduced to such an 
extremity; Croisilles was not too proud, but too thoughtless 
to tell him of it. So he determined to sleep under the starry 
vault, and as for his meals, he made the following calcula- 
tion: he presumed that the vessel which bore his fortune 
would be six months before coming back to Havre ; Croisilles, 
therefore, not without regret, sold a gold watch his father 
had given him, and which he had fortunately kept; he got 
thirty-six livres 6 for it. That was sufficient to live on for 
about six months, at the rate of four sous a day. He did 
not doubt that it would be enough, and, reassured for the 
present, he wrote to Mademoiselle Godeau to inform her of 
what he had done. He was very careful in his letter not to 
speak of his distress ; he announced to her, on the contrary, 
that he had undertaken a magnificent commercial enterprise, 
of the speedy and fortunate issue of which there could be no 
doubt; he explained to her that La Fleurette, a merchant- 
vessel of one hundred and fifty tons, was carrying to the 
Baltic his cloths and his silks, and implored her to remain 
faithful to him for a year, reserving to himself the right of 
asking, later on, for a further delay, while, for his part, he 
swore eternal love to her. 

When Mademoiselle Godeau received this letter, she was 
sitting before the fire, and had in her hand, using it as a 
screen, one of those bulletins which are printed in seaports, 

6. The livre was worth twenty cents. 



188 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

announcing the arrival and departure of vessels, and which 
also report disasters at sea. It had never occurred to her, as 
one can well imagine,- to take an interest in this sort of 
thing; she had in fact never glanced at any of these sheets. 
The perusal of Croisilles' letter prompted her to read the 
bulletin she had been holding in her hand ; the first word that 
caught her eye was no other than the name of La Fleurette. 
■ — The vessel had been wrecked on the coast of France, on 
the very night following its departure. The crew had barely 
escaped, but all the cargo was lost. 

Mademoiselle Godeau, at this news, no longer remembered 
that Croisilles had made to her an avowal of his poverty; she 
was as heartbroken as though a million had been at stake. 
In an instant, the horrors of the tempest, the fury of the 
winds, the cries of the drowning, the ruin of the man who 
loved her, presented themselves to her mind like a scene in a 
romance. The bulletin and the letter fell from her hands. 
She rose in great agitation, and, with heaving breast and eyes 
brimming with tears, paced up and down, determined to act, 
and asking herself how she should act. 

There is one thing that must be said in justice to love; it 
is that the stronger, the clearer, the simpler the considera- 
tions opposed to it, in a word, the less common sense there is 
in the matter, the wilder does the passion become and the 
more does the lover love. It is one of the most beautiful 
things under heaven, this irrationality of the heart. We 
should not be worth much without it. After having walked 
about the room (without forgetting either her dear fan or the 
passing glance at the mirror), Julie allowed herself to sink 
once more upon her lounge. Whoever had seen her at this 
moment would have looked upon a lovely sight; her eyes 
sparkled, her cheeks were on fire; she sighed deeply, and 
murmured in a delicious transport of joy and pain: 

"Poor fellow ! He has ruined himself for me !" 



CROISILLES ' 189 

Independent^ of the fortune which she could expect from 
her father, Mademoiselle Godeau had in her own right the 
property her mother had left her. She had never thought of 
it. At this moment, for the first time in her life, she remem- 
• bered that she could dispose of five hundred thousand francs. 
This thought brought a smile to her lips; a project, strange, 
bold, wholly feminine, almost as mad as Croisilles himself, 
entered her head; — she weighed the idea in her mind for 
some time, then decided to act upon it at once. 

She began by inquiring whether Croisilles had any rela- 
tives or friends ; the maid was sent out in all directions to 
find out. Having made minute inquiries in all quarters, she 
discovered, on the fourth floor of an old rickety house, a half- 
crippled aunt, who never stirred from her arm-chair, and had 
not been out for four or five years. This poor woman, very 
old, seemed to have been left in the world expressly as a 
specimen of hungry misery. Blind, gouty, almost deaf, she 
lived alone in a garret; but a gayety, stronger than misfor- 
tune and illness, sustained her at eighty years of age, and 
made her still love life. Her neighbors never passed her 
door without going in to see her, and the antiquated tunes 
she hummed enlivened all the girls of the neighborhood. She 
possessed a little annuity which sufficed to maintain her; as 
long as day lasted, she knitted. She did not know what had 
happened since the death of Louis XIV. 

It was to this worthy person that Julie had herself pri- 
vately conducted. She donned for the occasion all her 
finery; feathers, laces, ribbons, diamonds, nothing was 
spared. She wanted to be fascinating; but the real secret of 
her beauty, in this case, was the whim that was carrying 
her away. She went up the steep, dark staircase which 
led to the good lady's chamber, and, after the most graceful 
bow, spoke somewhat as follows : 

"You have, madame, a nephew, called Croisilles, who 



190 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

loves me and has asked for my hand; I love him, too, and 
wish to marry him; but my father, Monsieur Godeau, fer- 
mier-general of this town, refuses his consent, because your 
nephew is not rich. I would not, for the world, give occasion 
to scandal, nor cause trouble to anybody; I would therefore, 
never think of disposing of myself without the consent of 
my family. I come to ask you a favor, which I beseech you 
to grant me. You must come yourself and propose this mar- 
riage to my father. I have, thank God, a little fortune which 
is quite at your disposal ; you may take possession, whenever 
you see fit, of five hundred thousand francs at my notary's. 
You will say that this sum belongs to your nephew, which in 
fact it does. It is not a present that I am making him, it is a 
debt which I am paying, for I am the cause of the ruin of 
Croisilles, and it is but just that I should repair it. My 
father will not easily give in; you will be obliged to insist 
and you must have a little courage ; I, for my part, will not 
fail. As nobody on earth excepting myself has any right to 
the sum of which I am speaking to you, nobody will ever 
know in what way this amount will have passed into your 
hands. You are not very rich yourself, I know, and you may 
fear that people will be astonished to see you thus endowing 
your nephew; but remember that my father does not know 
you, that you show yourself very little in town, and that, 
consequently, it will be easy for you to pretend that you have 
just arrived from some journey. This step will doubtless be 
some exertion to you; you will have to leave your arm-chair 
and take a little trouble; but you will make two people 
happy, madame, and if you have ever known love, I hope you 
will not refuse me." 

The old lady, during this discourse, had been in turn 
surprised, anxious, touched, and delighted. The last words 
persuaded her. 

"Yes, my child/' she repeated several times, "I know what 
it is, — I know what it is." 



CROISILLES 191 

As she said this she made an effort to rise ; her feeble limbs 
could barely support her ; Julie quickly advanced and put out 
her hand to help her; by an almost involuntary movement 
they found themselves, in an instant, in each other's arms. 
A treaty was at once concluded; a warm kiss sealed it in 
advance, and the necessary and confidential consultation 
followed without further trouble. 

All the explanations having been made, the good lady 
drew from her wardrobe a venerable gown of taffeta, which 
had been her wedding-dress. This antique piece of property 
was not less than fifty years old ; but not a spot, not a grain 
of dust had disfigured it; Julie was in ecstasies over it. A 
coach was sent for, the handsomest in the town. The good 
lady prepared the speech she was going to make to Monsieur 
Godeau; Julie tried to teach her how she was to touch the 
heart of her father, and did not hesitate to confess that love 
of rank was his vulnerable point. 

"If you could imagine," said she, <f a means of flattering 
this weakness, you will have won our cause." 

The good lady pondered deeply, finished her toilet without 
another word, clasped the hands of her future niece, and en- 
tered the carriage. She soon arrived at the Godeau mansion ; 
there, she braced herself up so gallantly for her entrance 
that she seemed ten years younger. She majestically crossed 
the drawing-room where Julie's bouquet had fallen, and when 
the door of the boudoir opened, said in a firm voice to the 
lackey who preceded her : 

"Announce the dowager Baroness de Croisilles." 

These words settled the happiness of the two lovers. 
Monsieur Godeau. was bewildered by them. Although iive 
hundred thousand francs seemed little to him, he consented 
to everything, in order to make his daughter a baroness, and 
such she became; — who would dare contest her title? For 
my part, I think she had thoroughly earned it. 



MAUPASSANT 

(1850-1893) 

Guy de Maupassant was born in Normandy (northern 
France) in 1850. He completed his education at Rouen and 
then went to Paris where he was for a time a clerk in the 
Ministry of Marine. While yet a boy it was his good for- 
tune to have as the directing hand for his genius an acknowl- 
edged master of prose style, his god-father Flaubert. He 
taught Maupassant how to observe accurately and express 
himself clearly ; how to choose his characters and make them 
act in such a way as to seem real and fit the part assigned to 
them in the story. Flaubert read all of Maupassant's early 
poems and stories, pointed out their faults, and then de- 
stroyed them, with the result that when the young appren- 
tice finally began to publish his work it was the finished 
product of an expert in the art of writing. 

The two outstanding features of Maupassant's stories are 
precision of observation and simplicity of style. He had no 
theories of life to expound, no propaganda to advance. He 
himself says that his only doctrine was to portray nature, 
that is, human nature, faithfully. He chose his characters 
as they presented themselves to him in his own experience, 
and then contrived the story around them. He never tries 
to explain ; he simply gives the facts. The reader draws his 
own conclusion. Maupassant is, in other words, uncom- 
promisingly realistic. 

Maupassant's work fills thirty volumes, comprising six 
novels and two hundred and twelve short stories. The 
range of his characters and situations is equally extensive. 
He portrays the peasants of his native Normandy, the bour- 
geoisie and the working classes both of the country and of 
Paris, small tradesmen and their employees, government 
clerks, the men and women working on the Parisian news- 

192 



MAUPASSANT 193 

papers and magazines, and finally, the gentlemen and ladies 
of the salons. Add to these the mystic and fantastic sub- 
jects that came to him in those moments when his chronic 
nervous disorder caused his visions to be distorted, and 
the category of Maupassant's material is fairly complete. 

Many of his stories touch upon the harshness of the strug- 
gle for existence, often in its most primitive form, the mere 
difficulty of making ends meet; or again, the emphasis is 
placed upon the desire for money to secure certain ends — 
social or political or for the pursuit of pleasure. Some- 
times there is humor, a sort of grim humor, especially in his 
earlier stories. He liked to tell of the barren life of the 
underpaid officials of the bureaus, The Necklace being not 
only the best of this type of Maupassant story, but in the 
opinion of many critics the most perfect short story in any 
language. 

Of the other selections in this book, Fright, The Two 
Friends, and The Hand are excellent examples of the au- 
thor's power of calm and unadorned realism in depicting 
the horrible. The Wreck is a pleasant love story, a type not 
at all common with Maupassant. 

In the appreciation of Maupassant's work his general 
pessimism should be noted. Even when he laughs it is the 
laugh of irony. His outlook; on life was essentially bitter, 
yet he makes the reader feel that the bitterness is not in 
the writer but in the essence of things as they are. And 
the fact that he wrote mostly about people in ordinary life 
makes the gloom all the deeper. His stories almost inva- 
riably emphasize the tragedy of the commonplace. 

However, even in the most unpleasant of his stories the 
reader is conscious of the high art of the writer. There 
is no exuberance of words, there are no overwrought pas- 
sages, nothing to impede the progress of the story. So 
carefully did Maupassant write that not a word seems super- 
fluous, out of place, wanting. Every word, every idea, every 
incident is given its proper value; just that and no more. 
These are some of the qualities of Maupassant's style that 
are the despair of all imitators. 



194 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

The last few years of his life were spent very miserably 
in a private sanitarium near Paris, where he died July 6, 
1893. 

THE NECKLACE 1 

By GUY DE MAUPASSANT 

She was one of those pretty and charming girls, born as 
by a mistake of destiny, in a family of clerks. She had no 
dowry, no expectations, no means of being known, under- 
stood, loved, or married by a rich and distinguished man ; so 
she let herself be married to an ordinary clerk in the Depart- 
ment of Public Instruction. 

She was simple in her dress because she could not be 
elegant; but she was unhappy, like one kept out of her 
proper class; for with women there is neither caste nor 
rank. Their beauty, their grace, and their charm serve in- 
stead of birth and family. Native delicacy, an instinct for 
what is fine, and their nimbleness of wit constitute their only 
hierarchy, making daughters of the people the equals of the 
greatest ladies. 

She suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born for every 
delicacy and every luxury. She suffered because of the 
poverty of her dwelling, the wretchedness of its walls, the 
worn chairs, and the ugliness of the hangings. All the 
things which any other woman of her class would not even 
have noticed, tortured her and made her angry. The sight 
of the little Breton girl who did her humble housework awoke 
in her tormenting regrets and distracted dreams. Her mind 
dwelt on silent ante-rooms hung with Oriental tapestries, 
lighted by tall bronze lamps, and on the two tall footmen in 
knee breeches, dozing in the big armchairs, made drowsy by 
the heavy warmth of the stove. She thought of long par- 

1. Translated by H. C. Schweikert. 



THE NECKLACE 195 

lors decorated with old silk, of delicate furniture laden with 
precious bric-a-brac, and of coquettish little rooms, scented, 
made for the small-talk at five o'clock with one's most inti- 
mate friends, men well known and much sought after, whose 
attention is the envy and desire of every woman. 

When she sat down to dinner, at the round table covered 
with a cloth three days old, opposite her husband, who 
uncovered the tureen, and said with an air of satisfaction, 
"Ah, the good pot-au-feu! 2 I don't know anything better 
than that/' she was thinking of dainty repasts, with shining 
silver, of tapestry which peopled the walls with ancient 
personages and strange birds in the midst of a fairy forest; 
and of exquisite dishes served on marvelous plates, of whis- 
pered gallantries listened to with sphinx-like smile, while 
eating the pink flesh of a trout or the wings of a quail. 

She had no dresses, no jewels, nothing. And she loved 
nothing more than that ; she felt herself made for that. She 
would so much have liked to please, to be envied, to be attrac- 
tive and sought after. 

She had a rich friend, a companion of her convent days, 
whom she no longer wanted to go to see, because she suffered 
so much when she returned. And she wept all day long, 
from chagrin, from regret, from despair, and from distress. 

But one evening her husband came home with an air of 
triumph, holding a large envelope in his hand. 

"There," said he, "there is something for you." ■ 

She quickly tore the paper and drew out a printed card 
which bore these words : 

"The Minister of Public Instruction and Mme. Georges 
Ramponneau beg M. and Mme. Loisel to honor them with 
their presence at the palace of the Ministry, Monday, 
January 18." 

Instead of being delighted, as her husband hoped, she 

2. A dish consisting of meat and vegetables boiled together. 



196 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

disdainfully threw the invitation on the table, murmur- 
ing: 

"What am I to do with that?" 

"But, my dear, I thought you would be pleased. You 
never go out, and here is an opportunity, a splendid one. I 
had considerable trouble to get it. Everybody is after them; 
it is a very select affair and not many are given to clerks. 
The entire official world will be there. " 

She looked at him with an expression of irritation and 
declared impatiently: 

"What am I to put on my back to go there?" 

He had not thought of that; he stammered: 

"Why, the dress you wear to the theater. That seems 
very fine to me." 

Astonished and distracted, he said nothing more. His 
wife was crying. Two large tears rolled slowly from the 
corners of her eyes to the corners of her mouth. He 
stuttered : 

"What's the matter? What's the matter?" 

But by a violent effort she had overcome her difficulty, 
and she replied in a calm voice, as she wiped her moist 
cheeks : 

"Nothing. Only I have no clothes and therefore can't 
go to this affair. Give your card to some colleague whose 
wife has better clothes than I." 

He was grieved. He resumed: 

"Let's see, Mathilde. How much would a suitable dress 
cost, one which you could use on other occasions, something 
very simple?" 

She reflected several seconds, making calculations, and 
thinking also of the sum she could ask without an imme- 
diate refusal and a frightened exclamation from the eco- 
nomical clerk. 

At last she replied, hesitatingly : 



THE NECKLACE 197 

"I don't know exactly, but I believe I could do with four 
hundred francs. " 3 

He grew pale, for he was reserving just that amount to 
purchase a gun and treat himself to a little shooting the 
coming summer on the plain of Nanterre with several friends 
who used to go there Sundays to shoot larks. 

However, he said : 

"All right. I'll give you four hundred francs. But do 
try to have a pretty dress." 

The day of the party was drawing near, and Mme. Loisel 
seemed sad, restless, anxious. Her dress was ready, how- 
ever. Her husband said to her one evening: 

"What's the matter? You've been quite queer the last 
three days." 

And she answered: 

"It annoys me not to have a single jewel, not a stone to 
put on. I shall look wretched. I'd almost rather not go to 
the reception." 

"You could wear natural flowers. It's very stylish this 
time of the year. For ten francs you can get two or three 
magnificent roses." 

She was not convinced. 

"No; there's nothing more humiliating than to look poor 
among women who are rich." 

But her husband continued: 

"How stupid of you! Go find your friend Mme. Fores- 
tier, and ask her to lend you some jewelry. You have been 
close enough to her to do that." 

She gave a cry of j oy : 

"That's true. I had not thought of that." 

The next day she went to her friend and told her dis- 
tress. 

3. About eighty dollars. 



198 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

Mme. Forestier went to her mirrored wardrobe, took out a 
large j ewelry-box, opened it, and said to Mme. Loisel : 

"Choose, my dear." 

First she saw some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then 
a Venetian cross, gold and precious stones, of admirable 
workmanship. She tried on the ornaments before the glass, 
hesitated, and could not make up her mind to leave them, 
to give them back. She kept on asking: 

"You haven't any others?" 

"Why, yes. Look. I don't know what may please 
you." 

All at once she discovered, in a box of black satin, a 
superb diamond necklace, and her heart began to beat with 
immoderate longing. Her hands trembled as she took it 
up. She fastened it around her neck, over her high-necked 
dress, and was rapt in ecstasy at the sight of herself. 

Then she asked, hesitatingly, full of anxiety: 

"Can you let me have this, only this?" 

"Why, yes; certainly." 

She sprang upon her friend's neck, embraced her warmly, 
and then escaped with her treasure. 

The day of the party came. Mme. Loisel was a success. 
She was the best looking of them all, elegant, gracious, 
smiling, and crazy with joy. All the men were looking at 
her, asking who she was, and seeking an introduction. All 
the attaches of the Cabinet wanted to waltz with her. The 
Minister himself took notice of her. 

She danced in a transport of delight, intoxicated with 
pleasure, thinking of nothing, in the triumph of her beauty, 
in the glory of her success, in a sort of cloud of happiness 
produced by all this homage and admiration, of this victory 
so complete and so dear to the heart of woman. 

She left about four in the morning. Her husband had 
been sleeping since midnight in a small deserted ante-room, 



THE NECKLACE 199 

with three other gentlemen whose wives were having a good 
time. 

He threw over her shoulders the wraps he had brought, 
modest wraps of everyday life, the poverty of which was 
in contrast with the elegance of her ball dress. She felt 
this and wished to get away without being noticed by the 
other women who were wrapping themselves up in rich furs. 

Loisel held her back. 

"Wait a minute. You'll catch cold. I'll call a cab." 

But she did not listen to him, and went rapidly down the 
stairs. When they came to the street they could not find a 
carriage ; and they began to look for one, shouting to drivers 
whom they saw at a distance. 

They went down towards the Seine, in disgust and shiver- 
ing from the cold. Finally they found on the quay one of 
those old night carriages which one does not see in Paris 
until after nightfall, as if they were ashamed of their 
wretchedness during the day. 

It took them to their door, Rue des Martyrs, and sadly 
they mounted their own steps. It was all over, for her. 
He, on the other hand, was thinking that he would have to 
be at the office by ten o'clock. 

She removed the wraps from her shoulders, before the 
looking-glass, in order to see herself once more in her glory. 
But all at once she gave a cry. She no longer had the neck- 
lace around her neck ! 

Her husband, already half undressed, asked: 

"What's the matter?" 

She turned to him in terror : 

"I — I — I no longer have Mme. Forestier's necklace." 

He rose, frightened. 

"What? — How? — It isn't possible!" 

And they searched the folds of her dress, the folds of her 
cloak, the pockets, everywhere. But they did not find it. 



200 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

He asked: 

"You are sure that you still had it when leaving the ball?" 

"Yes, I touched it while in the vestibule of the Ministry. " 

"But if you had lost it in the street we should have heard 
it drop. It must be in the carriage." 

"Yes, very likely. You took his number?" 

"No. And you, didn't you look at it?" 

"No." 

They looked at one another, thoroughly upset. Finally 
Loisel dressed again. 

"I'm going back over the whole route," said he, "on foot, 
to see if I can't find it." 

And he went out. She remained there, in her evening 
gown, without strength to go to bed, utterly depressed, 
without a fire, without thought. 

Her husband returned about seven o'clock. He had not 
found it. 

He went to the Prefecture of Police, to the newspapers 
to offer a reward, to the cab companies; indeed, he went 
wherever a glimmer of hope impelled him to go. 

She waited all day, in the same state of distraction over 
this frightful disaster. 

Loisel came home in the evening, with his face pale and 
sunken; he had discovered nothing. 

"You must write to your friend," he said, "that you have 
broken the clasp of the necklace and that you are having it 
repaired. That will give us time to turn round." 

She wrote as he dictated. 

At the end of the week they had lost all hope. 

And Loisel, who had aged five years, declared: 

"We must see about replacing that piece of jewelry." 

Next day they took the box in which it had been contained 
to the jeweler whose name was on the inside. He consulted 
his books. 



THE NECKLACE 201 

"It was not I, madame, who sold that necklace. I must 
only have furnished the case." 

Then they went from one jeweler to another, searching 
for a necklace like the other, consulting their memories, 
sick, both of them, with chagrin and anxiety. 

In a shop in the Palais Royal 4 they found a diamond 
necklace which seemed to them quite like the one they were 
looking for. It was priced at forty thousand francs, but 
they could have it for thirty-six. 

They begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days. 
And they made a bargain that he would take it back for 
thirty-four thousand francs if the other was found before 
the end of February. 

Loisel had eighteen thousand francs which his father had 
left him. He had to borrow the rest. 

He borrowed, asking a thousand francs from one, five 
hundred from another, five louis 5 here, five there. He 
gave notes, made ruinous obligations, did business with the 
whole tribe of money-lenders. He compromised all the rest 
of his existence, risked his signature without even knowing 
whether he could meet his obligation; and, terriiied by the 
anguish of the future, by the black misery which was going 
to fall upon him, by the prospect of physical privations and 
moral tortures of every kind, he went and bought the neck- 
lace, laying down thirty-six thousand francs on the jeweler's 
counter. 

When Mme. Loisel took the necklace back, Mme. Fores- 
tier said, with an air of inquiry : 

"You should have brought it back sooner, for I might have 
needed it." 

Her friend had been in dread lest Mme. Forestier should 

4. A palace in Paris built by Richelieu and afterwards left to Louis 
XIV. It has galleries and arcades still famous for shops, especially 
jewelry shops. 

5. Twenty dollars. 



202 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

open the case, but her fear was groundless. If she had 
observed the substitution, what would she have thought? 
What would she have said ? Would she not have been taken 
for a thief ? 

Mme. Loisel now experienced the horrible life of the 
needy. Presently, however, she took her part heroically. 
That frightful debt had to be paid. She would pay it. 
They sent the servant away; they changed lodgings; they 
rented an attic under a roof. 

She learned what heavy housework was, the disagreeable 
duties of the kitchen. She washed the dishes, wearing off 
her rosy nails on the greasy kettles and the bottoms of the 
pans. She washed the soiled linen, the shirts, and all the 
rougher things, which she dried on a line; every morning 
she carried the garbage down to the street, and brought up 
the water, stopping to regain her breath on every landing. 
And, dressed like a woman of the people, she went to the 
fruiterer, the grocer, the butcher, with her basket on her 
arm, bargaining, insulted, fighting sou 6 by sou with her 
wretched money. 

They had to pay some notes each month, and renew 
others to gain time. 

Her husband worked evenings making fair copies of a 
tradesman's accounts, and at night he often did copying 
at five sous a page. 

And this life lasted ten years. 

At the end of ten years they had repaid everything, rates 
of usury, accumulations of compound interest, all. 

Mme. Loisel seemed old now. She had become a typical 
woman of a poor household, strong, hard, and rough. With 
hair badly combed, her skirts untidy, and her hands red, 
she talked in a loud voice, and washed the floor with copious 
splashings of water. But, at times, when her husband was 

6. One cent. 



THE NECKLACE 203 

at the office, she would sit down by the window, and think 
of that evening of long ago, of that ball where she had been 
so beautiful and so courted. 

What would have happened if she had not lost that neck- 
lace? Who knows? Who knows? How singular is life, 
and how changeable ! How little a thing it takes to be lost 
or saved ! 

But, one Sunday, as she was taking a walk in the 
Champs-Elysees as a relief from her cares of the week, 
she all at once saw a woman walking with a child. It 
was Mme. Forestier, still young, still beautiful, still 
attractive. 

Mme. Loisel was moved. Should she go and speak to 
her? Why, certainly. Now that she had paid, she would 
tell her everything. Why not? 

She approached her. 

"Good afternoon, Jeanne/' 

The other woman did not recognize her, and was aston- 
ished at being spoken to so familiarly by this woman of the 
common people. She stammered: 

"But, madame, — I do not know — You must have made a 
mistake/' 

"No. I am Mathilde Loisel." 

"Oh! — My poor Mathilde, how you have changed !" 

"Yes, I have indeed had hard days since I last saw you; 
and much misery — and that because of you/' 

"Of me — How can that be?" 

"You remember that diamond necklace you lent me to go 
to the ball at the Ministry?" 

"Yes. What of that?" 

"Well, I lost it." 

"What? Why, you returned it." 

"I bought you one just like it. And for ten years we've 
been paying for it. You will understand that it was no easy 



204 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

matter for us, who had nothing. At last that is over, and 
I'm happy enough." 

Mme. Forestier had stopped. 

"You say that you bought a diamond necklace to replace 
mine?" 

"Yes. You didn't even notice it, then, did you? They 
were very much alike." 

And she smiled with a proud and naive joy. 

Mme. Forestier, strongly moved, took hold of both her 
hands. 

"Oh ! My poor Mathilde ! Why, mine was false. It was 
worth at most five hundred francs !" 



THE WRECK 1 

By GUY DE MAUPASSANT 

It was yesterday, the 31st of December. 

I had just finished breakfast with my old friend, Georges 
Garin. The servant brought him a letter covered with seals 
and foreign stamps. 

Georges said to me: 

"Allow me?" 

"Certainly." 

And he began to read an eight-page letter written in a 
large English hand, scrawled in every direction. He read 
slowly, giving it serious attention, with that interest which 
one gives only to things that touch the heart. 

Then he placed the letter on the edge of the mantel- 
piece and said: 

"Well, here is a curious story which I have never told 
you, a sentimental story, withal, and one which happened 
to me! Oh! That was a red-letter day for me, that year. 
That was twenty years ago, for I was then thirty years old, 
and I am now fifty. 

"I was then an inspector for the Maritime Insurance 
Company, of which I am now manager. I had expected to 
pass New Year's Day in Paris, since it is the custom to 
make that day a holiday, when I received a letter from the 
manager ordering me to set out immediately for the Island 
of Re, 2 where a three-masted schooner from Saint-Nazaire, 
insured by us, had just been stranded. It was then eight 
o'clock in the morning. By ten o'clock I was at the office 

1. Translated by H. C. Schweikert. 

2. An island in the Bay of Biscay. 

205 



206 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

to get my instructions, and that same night I took the 
express, which got me into La Rochelle 3 the next day, 
the 31st of December. 

"I had two hours on my hands before going aboard the 
boat for Re, the Jean-Guiton. I took a turn about the city. 
La Rochelle is indeed a unique town of impressive character, 
with its labyrinthine maze of streets whose sidewalks run 
under galleries without end, galleries and arcades like those 
of the Rue de Rivoli, 4 but low, with an air of mystery, as 
though specially built to tempt conspirators, and of antique 
appearance, savoring of the wars of olden times, the heroic 
and savage wars of religion. It is indeed the old Huguenot 5 
city, grave, discreet, without any great art, and none of 
those wonderful monuments which make Rouen 6 so mag- 
nificent; yet it is striking because of its severe physical 
outlines, a little elusive too, a city of determined fighters, 
the birthplace of many fanaticisms, a city in which flourished 
the faith of the Calvinists 7 and where the plot of the 'Four 
Sergeants' 8 was born. 

"After I had wandered about these picturesque streets 
for some time I boarded the small steamboat, black and 
squat, which was to take me to the Island of Re. It started, 
puffing angrily, passed between the two ancient towers which 
guard the port, crossed the channel, passed out beyond 
the mole built by Richelieu, 9 the enormous rocks of which 
were visible above the water's edge, encircling the city like 
an immense necklace ; then we turned towards the right. 

3. A city in southeastern France, on the Bay of Biscay. 

4. A street in Paris noted for its shops. 

5. The name given to the Protestants in France in the 15th and 
16th centuries. They were often subjected to persecution. 

6. A city on the Seine River. It is noted for its shipping, for its 
architectural monuments, and as the scene of the burning of Joan of 
Arc. 

7. The Protestants who were followers of John Calvin instead of 
Luther. In France they were called Huguenots. 

8. Four conspirators beheaded in Paris, 1822, for treason. 

9. A famous French statesman (1585-1642). 



THE WRECK 207 

"It was one of those gloomy, depressing days, which 
weigh heavily upon one's mind, which make one sick at 
heart, deadening in us all our force and energy ; a day gray 
and frigid, heavy with salty fog, damp as rain, cold as 
frost, affecting the breathing like the stench of a sewer. 

"Under this low-hanging and forbidding fog, the yellow 
sea, shallow and sandy from washing over the long stretch 
of beach, remained without a ripple, without movement, 
lifeless, a sea of muddy water, greasy and stagnant. The 
Jean-Guiton went over it, rolling a little through habit, 
cutting the smooth dark surface, leaving behind a few waves, 
a few splashes, and some heavings which soon calmed them- 
selves. 

"I began talking to the captain, a little short man almost 
without feet, round as his boat and balanced like it. I 
wanted some details about the wreck upon which I was 
going to make an estimate. A large three-masted vessel 
from Saint-Nazaire, the Marie-Joseph, had gone aground 
on a stormy night, on the sand-bars near the Island of Re. 

"The storm had thrown the ship so far in, wrote the 
owner, that it had been impossible to float it again, and 
that they had had to take off hastily everything detachable. 
It was my business, then, to examine the situation of the 
wreck, figure out its condition before the storm, and decide 
if all possible efforts had been made to float it. I came as 
agent of the company, so that I might give contradictory 
testimony later, if necessary, in the lawsuit. 

"Upon receipt of my report, the manager would take such 
steps as he thought necessary for safeguarding our interests. 

"The captain of the Jean-Guiton knew all about the 
affair, having been called on for help, with his boat, in the 
attempts at salvage. 

"He told me the story of the wreck, very simply, too. 
The Marie-Joseph, driven by the furious gale, became lost 



208 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

in the night, and steering by chance on a foamy sea — 'a 
milk-soup sea' it was called by the captain — was wrecked 
on those immense shoals of shifting sands which make the 
coasts of this region seem like limitless Saharas during the 
hours of low tide. 

"As we spoke I looked around and ahead. Between the 
ocean and the lowering sky there was an open space through 
which one could see far. We were skirting a shore. I asked : 

" 'Is that the Island of Re?' 

" 'Yes, monsieur/ 

"And all at once the captain, pointing with his right 
hand straight before us, indicated to me an object almost 
imperceptible on the open sea, and said: 

" 'Look, there is your ship V 
The Marie-Joseph?' 

" 'Yes.' 

"I was astounded. That black speck, well-nigh invisible, 
which I should have taken for a reef, seemed to me about 
two miles from shore. 

"I resumed: 

u 'But, captain, there must be a hundred fathoms of water 
at the spot you are indicating/ 

"He laughed. 

" 'A hundred fathoms, my dear sir ! . . . Not two fathoms, 
I assure you !' . . . 

"He was from Bordeaux. 10 He continued: 
' 'It is high tide now, twenty minutes of ten. Walk along 
the beach, your hands in your pockets, after you have 
lunched at the Hotel Daupin, and I'll guarantee that by 
ten minutes of three, or three o'clock at the most, you will 
have walked to the wreck, without getting your feet wet, 
and you will have from an hour, and three-quarters to two 

10. In the French the captain speaks the dialect of Bordeaux, which 
it is impossible to reproduce in translation. 



THE WRECK 209 

hours to remain on it; no longer, though, or you'll get 
caught. The further out the tide goes, the quicker it comes 
back. The coast along here is as flat as a bug. Be sure to 
start back at ten minutes of five; and at seven-thirty you 
will again be on board the Jean-Guiton, which will take 
you back this very night to the quay at La Rochelle/ 

"I thanked the captain, and went to take a seat on the 
bow of the boat, to take a look at the little town of Saint- 
Martin, which we were rapidly approaching. 

"It was like all the miniature seaports which serve as 
capitals for the barren little islands scattered along the 
continent. It was a large fishing village, part of it in the 
water and part on land; its people living on fish and 
wild-fowl, vegetables and shell-fish, radishes and mussels. 
The island is very low, little cultivated, but seems 
well populated. However, I did not penetrate into the 
interior. 

"After lunch I went up a little promontory, and from 
there, as the tide was going out fast, I proceeded across the 
sand towards a kind of black rock which I noticed just 
above the water, way out. 

"I walked rapidly across this yellow level of sand, elastic 
as flesh, and it seemed to sweat under my steps. The sea 
had been there a while before; now I saw it far out, as 
though fleeing from sight, and I could no longer distinguish 
the line which separated the land from the sea. I felt as 
though I were a part of a gigantic and supernatural spec- 
tacle. The Atlantic had just been before me, but now it 
seemed to have disappeared into the strand, like stage 
scenery into a trap, and I walked now in the middle of a 
desert. Only the feeling and the breath of the salt water 
remained with me. I smelled the odor of the debris left 
by the sea, the smell of the ocean, the good, strong-scented 
smell of the coast. I walked fast; I was no longer cold; 



210 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

I looked at the wreck, which became larger the nearer I 
approached, and now resembled a huge stranded whale. 

"It seemed to rise out of the earth, and on that vast 
expanse of sand, flat and yellow, it assumed surprising 
proportions. I reached it at last, after an hour's walk. 
It lay upon its side, split open, shattered, its broken bones 
showing like those of an animal, and its ribs of tarred wood 
pierced by large nails clearly visible. The sand already 
was enveloping it, entering through the rents, holding it, 
possessing it, never to let go. It seemed to have become 
rooted in the sand. The prow had sunk deep into that soft, 
treacherous sand, while the stern, high in the air, seemed 
to throw toward the sky, like a hopeless cry of appeal, those 
two white words on the black planking, Marie- Joseph. 

"I climbed upon this corpse of a ship by the lower side; 
and after gaining the deck I went down into the interior. 
The daylight, coming in through the broken hatches and the 
fissures in the sides, illuminated sadly what looked like 
long and somber caves, full of broken timbers. There was 
nothing inside except sand, which served as a floor to these 
vaults of planks. 

"I began to take notes on the condition of the vessel. 
I sat down on a broken empty barrel, writing by the light 
of a large crack through which I could see the limitless 
stretch of the shore. A peculiar shiver, due to the cold and 
the solitude, crept over me from time to time ; and I stopped 
writing at times to listen to the vague and mysterious sounds 
in the wreck: the sound of crabs scraping the timbers with 
their hooked claws, the sound of a thousand small animals 
of the sea already attached to this corpse; the sound, soft 
and regular, of the worms gnawing ceaselessly, making a 
noisef like that of a gimlet, as they dig out and devour the 
old planks. 

"And suddenly I heard human voices, quite near me. I 



THE WRECK 211 

jumped as though a ghost had appeared. For a moment 
I really thought that I was going to see two drowned men 
rise from the depths of that sinister hold, who would tell 
me how they died. You can imagine that it did not take me 
long to pull myself up on the deck, with all the strength 
that lay in my wrists. I saw, standing below the stern, a 
tall gentleman and three young ladies, or, rather, a tall En- 
glishman and three young misses. Indeed, they were more 
frightened than I was, when they saw this apparition sud- 
denly appearing on the abandoned three-master. The 
youngest of the girls ran away ; the two others caught hold 
of their father's arms; as for him, he opened his mouth — 
that was the only sign which indicated his emotion. 

"Then, after a few seconds, he said: 

" 'Ah, mosieu, you are the proprietor of this ship?' 

" 'Yes, sir/ 

'"May I visit it?' 

" 'Yes.' 

"He then spoke a long sentence in English, in which I 
distinguished only the word 'gracious/ repeated several 
times. 

"As he was looking for a place to climb up, I pointed out 
the best one and gave him a helping hand. He came up; 
then we assisted the three young girls, who were now reas- 
sured. They were charming, especially the oldest, a blonde 
of eighteen years, fresh as a flower, so delicate and dainty ! 
Truly, the pretty English girls have the look of the tender 
fruits of the sea. One could have said that this one had just 
risen from the sand and that her hair had kept some of its 
tint. They made you think, with their exquisite freshness, 
of the delicate colors of pink sea-shells and mother-of-pearl, 
rare, mysterious, born in the unknown depths of the ocean. 

"She spoke French a little better than her father and 
served as interpreter. I had to tell the story of the wreck 



212 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

to the minutest details, and I invented them, as though I 
had been present at the catastrophe. Then the whole family 
went down into the interior of the wreck. As soon as they 
had entered that dark gallery, poorly lighted, they uttered 
cries of astonishment and admiration; and suddenly the 
father and his three daughters were holding sketch-books, 
which doubtless they had carried concealed in the folds of 
their heavy wraps, and they began at the same time four 
pencil sketches of this bizarre and gloomy scene. 

"They were seated side by side on a projecting beam, 
and the four sketch-books on the eight knees were covered 
with little black lines which were to represent the shattered 
hull of the Marie-Joseph. 

"Although busy with her sketch, the oldest girl kept on 
talking to me as I continued my inspection of the remains 
of the ship. 

"I learned that they were spending the winter at Biar- 
ritz, 11 and that they had come to the Island of Re expressly 
to view this three-master stuck in the sand. They did not 
have the usual English arrogance, these people; they were 
simple and straightforward, of that class of wanderers with 
which England is covering the world. The father was tall 
and slender, his red face fringed with whiskers, a sort of 
living sandwich, a slice of ham in the form of a human head 
between two layers of hair. The daughters were like young 
and growing herons, long-legged, slender also, except the 
oldest; and all three were good-looking — especially the 
tallest. 

"She had such a droll way of speaking, of telling things, 
of laughing, of understanding and not understanding, of 
raising her eyes to question me, eyes like the deep blue sea, 
of stopping her drawing to figure out what I had said, and 
of beginning her work again, saying 'Yes' or 'No' — that I 

11. A French bathing resort on the Bay of Biscay. 



THE WRECK 213 

could have stayed indefinitely to listen to her and look at her. 

"All of a sudden she murmured: 

" 'I heard a slight movement on the ship.' 

"I listened; and I immediately made out a slight sound, 
peculiar, continuous. What was it? I got up and looked 
through the crack, and uttered a sharp cry. 

"The tide had returned; and it was about to surround us ! 

"We were on deck in a trice. It was too late. The water 
encircled us, and was running towards the shore with fright- 
ful speed. No, it did not run, it glided along, it crept, 
stretching itself as though it were carrying out a definitely 
assigned task. Hardly more than a few inches of water 
covered the sand ; but already the water was so far in that 
we could no longer see the fleeing line of its edge. 

"The Englishman wanted to jump in, but I held him back; 
for flight was impossible, because of the deep pools which 
we had avoided in coming, and which we should be sure to 
fall into on our return. 

"In our hearts there was a moment of horrible anxiety. 
Then the little English girl smiled and remarked: 

" 'It is we who are the shipwrecked V 

"I wanted to laugh; but fear prevented me, a cowardly 
fright, base and stealthy, like the tide. All the dangers 
to which we were exposed appeared to me at once. I felt 
like shouting 'Help V But to whom ? 

"The two younger girls were clinging to their father, who 
looked in consternation at the boundless sea around us. 

"And the night was falling with the same rapidity that 
the ocean was rising, a heavy night, wet and icy. 

"I said: 
' 'There is nothing to do but to remain on the boat/ 

"The Englishman responded: 

'"Oh! yes/ 

"And we remained there a quarter of an hour, a half hour, 



211 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

in truths I know not how long, watching the yellow water 
around us becoming deeper and deeper, eddying about so 
that it seemed to play over the immense shore once more 
recovered. 

"One of the little girls was cold, and the idea suggested 
itself that we go below again to shelter ourselves from the 
light but icy breeze, which struck us and bit our skins. 

"I was leaning on the hatch. The ship was full of water. 
We had to keep close to the bulwarks at the stern, which 
protected us somewhat. 

"Darkness now enveloped us, and we remained crowded 
one against the other, surrounded by the shadows of the 
night, and by the sea. Against my shoulder I felt the 
trembling of that little English girl, whose teeth chattered 
every now and then; but I felt also the soft warmth of her 
body through her heavy cloak, and that warmth was as 
pleasing to me as a kiss. We no longer talked ; we remained 
motionless, silent, cowering like beasts in a ditch during a 
storm. Yet in spite of all this, in spite of the night, in spite 
of the terrible and growing danger, I began to feel happy 
at being there, glad of the peril and the cold, glad of those 
long hours of darkness and anxiety which I had to spend on 
that spot, so near that pretty and charming girl. 

"I asked myself why that strange feeling of happiness 
and joy which permeated me. 

"Why? Who knows? Because she was there? Who, 
she? A little English girl whom I did not even know? I 
did not love her, I did not know her, and yet I felt myself 
attracted, conquered ! I would have liked to save her, to 
devote myself to her, to do a thousand foolish things ! 
Strange thing ! How does it happen that the presence of a 
woman so upsets us ? Is it the power of her charm which 
envelops us ? Is it the allurement of beauty and youth which 
intoxicates us like wine ? 



THE WRECK 215 

"Is it not rather a sort of touch of love, the mysterious love 
which ceaselessly seeks to unite two beings, which tries its 
power when a man and woman are brought face to face, 
and which pervades them with emotion, an emotion confused, 
secret, profound, just as you water the ground to make the 
flowers grow? 

"But the silence of the darkness, the silence of the sky, 
became frightful, for we could hear around us, vaguely, a 
light rustling noise, the infinite hollow roar of the rising sea, 
and the monotonous beating of the current against the 
vessel. 

"Of a sudden, I heard sobs. The youngest of the girls 
was crying. Her father wanted to console her, and they 
began to talk in their own language, which I did not under- 
stand. I gathered that they were reassuring her, and that 
she was still afraid. 

"I asked the one next me: 

" 'Are you not too cold, miss?' 

"'Oh! yes; I am very cold/ 

"I wanted to give her my cloak; she refused it. But I 
had taken it off and wrapped her up in it in spite of herself. 
In the brief struggle my hand met hers, and it gave me a 
pleasing shiver all over. 

"For some minutes the air had been growing brisker, the 
breaking of the water against the sides of the ship more 
strong. 

"I rose; a strong gust of wind blew over my face. The 
wind was rising ! 

"The Englishman perceived it at the same time, and he 
said simply: 

"'That is bad for us, that. . . / 

"That surely was bad, it was certain death if the waves, 
even feeble waves, struck the wreck and moved it; so shat- 



216 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

tered and disjointed was it that the first heavy sea would 
carry it off in pieces. 

"So our anxiety increased from second to second as the 
gusts became stronger and stronger. Now the sea was be- 
coming a little rougher, and I saw in the darkness lines of 
white appear and disappear, lines of foam ; while each wave 
shook the hulk of the Marie-Joseph, causing an abrupt 
tremor which rose to our hearts. 

"The English girl was shaking; I felt her shivering 
against me, and I had a mad desire to fold her in my arms. 

"Out there, before us, to the left, to the right, behind us, 
the lighthouses were glaring along the coast — lights white, 
yellow, red, revolving like enormous eyes, the eyes of a 
giant who was looking at us, watching us, waiting greedily 
for us to disappear. One of them especially irritated me. 
It went out every thirty seconds, to be re-lit immediately; 
it was truly an eye, that one, with its lid always lowered 
over its fiery glare. 

"From time to time the Englishman struck a match to see 
the time; then he put his watch back into his pocket. Sud- 
denly he said to me, over the heads of his daughters, with 
supreme gravity: 

' 'Monsieur, I wish you a Happy New Year/ 

"It was midnight. I held out my hand to him and he 
shook it. Then he said something in English, and presently 
he and his daughters began to sing 'God Save the Queen/ 
which rose in the dark, silent air and was lost in space. 

"First I had a desire to laugh; then I was seized by a 
strong and queer emotion. 

"It was something sinister and superb, this song of the 

shipwrecked, of the condemned, something like a prayer, 

and also something grander, comparable to the old and 

sublime Ave Ccesar morituri te salutamus. 12 

12. "Hail, Caesar ! We, who are about to die, salute you." It was 
the address of the Gladiators entering the arena, to the Caesar. 



THE WRECK 217 

"When they had finished I asked the girl to sing by her- 
self, some ballad, what she would, to make us forget our 
anxiety. She consented and soon her clear and youthful 
voice took wing in the night. She was singing something 
sad, no doubt, for the notes were long drawn out, coming 
slowly from her mouth, and fluttered, like wounded birds, 
across the waters. 

"The tide became higher and now was battering our 
wreck. As for me, I thought of nothing but that voice. And 
I thought also of the Sirens. If a boat had passed near us, 
what would the sailor have said? My troubled spirit was 
carried away in a dream ! A Siren ! was she not, in fact, a 
Siren, this child of the sea, who had held me on this worm- 
eaten ship, and who, in a very short while, was going to 
sink with me into the waves ? 

"But all five of us were suddenly rolling promiscuously 
over the deck, because the Marie-Joseph had given a lurch 
to her right side. The English girl had fallen right over me. 
I caught her in my arms, and madly, without knowing what 
I was doing, believing my last moment had come, I kissed 
her on the lips, on the temples, on the hair. The boat no 
longer moved, and we also remained motionless. 

"The father said: 'Kate!' The one I was holding an- 
swered 'Yes/ and made a movement to disengage herself. 

"Surely, at that instant, I could have wished that the boat 
would split in two, so that I might fall into the sea with 
her. 

"The Englishman went on: 

' 'Just a trifle of a lurch; it is nothing. I have my three 
daughters safe.' 

"Not seeing the oldest girl, he had, at first, thought her 
lost! 

"I rose slowly, and, all at once, I saw a light on the sea, 
quite near us. I shouted ; some one answered. It was a boat 



218 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

looking for us, the proprietor of the hotel having foreseen 
our imprudence. 

"We were saved. I was sorry for it! They took us off 
from our raft and brought us back to Saint-Martin. 

"The Englishman now rubbed his hands and murmured: 

" 'A good supper ! A good supper !' 

"We supped; but I was not lively; I regretted the Marie- 
Joseph. 

"We had to separate the next day, after many hand- 
shakes and promises to write. They went to Biarritz, and 
I came near following them. 

"I was hit hard; I wanted to ask that young girl to marry 
me. I am sure that if we had passed eight days together I 
should have married her. How weak a man is sometimes, 
and how incomprehensible ! 

"Two years rolled by without my hearing a word from 
them. Then I received a letter from New York. She was 
married, and wrote to tell me. And since then we write 
every year, on the first of January. She tells me about her 
life, talks about her children, her sisters, but never about 
her husband. Why? Ah, why? And as for me, I speak 
only of the Marie-Joseph. She is perhaps the only woman 
I ever loved . . . no . . . should have loved. . . . But 
. . . Ah! . . . Does one know? . . . The events of life 
carry you along. . . . And then . . . and then . . . 
everything passes. . . . She must be old now. ... I 
wouldn't know her. . . . Ah! Those old days . . . that 
wreck. . . . What a creature . . . divine ! She writes me 
that her hair is quite white. . . . Good heavens ! . . . That 
gives me a terrible pain. . . . Ah ! Her blonde locks. . . . 
No ! The girl I knew no longer exists. . , . How sad it is 
... all that. . . ." 



FRIGHT 1 

By GUY DE MAUPASSANT 

After dinner we again went up on the bridge. Before us 
lay the Mediterranean, its silvery calm undisturbed by even 
a single ripple. Our steamer glided along, casting a long 
serpent-like trail of black smoke against a sky which seemed 
sprinkled with stars. Behind us the sea, stirred by the 
swift movement of the heavy vessel, was churned into foam 
by the blades of the propeller, and it seemed to writhe, so 
that its white surface, broken into many rays of light, made 
it appear as though the very moonlight was boiling. 

Here we were, some six or eight of us, in silent admiration, 
our eyes fixed on distant Africa, whither we were bound. 
The captain, who was smoking his cigar with us, resumed 
the conversation begun at dinner. 

"Surely I was frightened that day. My ship remained six 
hours with that rock in its side, constantly battered by the 
sea. Fortunately for us we were picked up towards evening 
by an English collier which happened to sight us." 

Thereupon a tall man with a tanned face and a serious 
expression, one of those men who give the impression of 
having traveled far in unknown lands, always surrounded by 
danger, and whose tranquil eyes seemed to retain in their 
depths something of those strange lands which he had seen ; 
one of those men who seem to be fearlessly daring, now 
spoke for the first time : 

"You say, captain, that you were frightened. I have to 
differ. You use the wrong word for the feeling you expe- 
rienced on that occasion. A strong man is never frightened 

1. Translated by H. C. Schweikert. 

219 



220 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

in the presence of an immediate danger. He is moved, 
agitated, anxious; but frightened; that's another thing," 

The captain replied, laughing : 

"The devil you say! I insist that I was a frightened 
man. 

Then the man with the bronzed face said, speaking slowly : 

"Permit me to explain. Fright (and the hardiest of men 
can have it) is something horrible, a dreadful sensation, like 
the decomposition of the soul; a fearful spasm of the mind 
and of the heart, the mere memory of which brings shivers of 
agony. But a brave man does not experience it even in the 
moment of an attack, or when confronted by inevitable death, 
or in the presence of any of the known forms of danger ; it 
takes an abnormal situation, mysterious influences in the face 
of unknown perils. Real fright is like a sort of reminiscence 
of the fantastic terrors of old. A man who believes in spirits 
and imagines himself seeing a ghost in the night must expe- 
rience fright in all its fearful horror. 

"As for myself, I had a taste of fright in broad daylight 
about ten years ago. I felt it again last winter, one night in 
December. 

"And yet, I have certainly had many a narrow escape, 
many an adventure which pointed to deadly consequences. 
I have often been in fights. I have been left for dead by rob- 
ber bands. I have been condemned to the gallows in Amer- 
ica to be hanged as a rebel ; and I have been thrown into the 
sea, near the coast of China, from the bridge of a ship. 
Each time I thought myself lost, accepting my fate without 
comment or even regret. 

"But that was not fright. 

"I had a touch of it while in Africa. And yet fright is a 
child of the north; sunshine dissipates it as though it were 
a fog. Note this well, gentlemen: among the Orientals life 
counts for nothing; they readily resign themselves; the 



FRIGHT 221 

nights are clear, and free of the somber anxieties which 
harass the imagination of the people of northern climes. In 
the East men know panic, but they do not know what 
fright is. 

"And here is what happened to me in that land of Africa: 

"I was crossing the broad sand dunes in the south of 
Ouargla. 2 That is one of the strangest countries in the 
world. You have seen the smooth sand on the interminable 
beaches of the ocean. Well, picture the ocean itself in the 
midst of a storm suddenly become sand; imagine a silent 
tempest of motionless waves of yellow sand. They are as 
high as mountains, these waves, unequal, each one different, 
and heaving as though they had just been unchained, larger 
and larger, with furrow-like streaks on their surface. On 
this raging sea, silent and motionless, the devouring sun of 
the south beats down remorselessly. The traveler must 
climb these billows of golden ashes, come down again, go up, 
climbing without end, without rest, without shade. The 
horses pant, sinking to their knees, and slipping as they go 
down the other side of these peculiar hills. 

"There were two of us, myself and a friend, acompanied 
by eight spahis 3 and four camels with their drivers. We 
no longer talked, weakened by the heat, tired out, and dry 
as the desert itself with thirst. Suddenly one of our men 
gave a sort of cry; all of us stopped; we remained motion- 
less, surprised by an inexplicable phenomenon known only 
to travelers in those desert lands. 

"Somewhere, near us, in a direction which we could not 
make out, we heard the beating of a drum, the mysterious 
drum of the dunes ; the beating was distinct, now strong, 
now weaker, stopping entirely, then resuming its fantastic 
roll. 

2. A part of the Sahara Desert in Algeria. 

3. Native horse soldiers serving in the French army in Algeria. 



222 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"The Arabs, frightened, looked at each other; one said 
in his own language, 'Death is upon us.' And behold, all 
of a sudden my companion and friend, almost my brother, 
fell from his horse, head forward, from sunstroke. 

"For two hours, during which I tried in vain to save him, 
that drum ceaselessly kept filling my ears with its monoto- 
nous noise, intermittent and incomprehensible ; and I began 
to feel glide into my bones fright, true fright, hideous fright, 
there in the presence of the dead body of my beloved friend, 
in that sun-scorched trough, between four hills of sand; 
while here, six hundred miles from the nearest French 
village, continued the echo of the beating of that strange 
drum. 

"That day I understood what it was to be frightened; I 
knew it even better on another occasion. . . ." 

The captain interrupted the story-teller : 

"Pardon, Monsieur, but that drum ? What was it ?" 

The traveler replied : 

"I know nothing about it. No one knows. Officers, often 
surprised by that singular sound, generally attribute it to 
an enlarged echo, multiplied, immeasurably swelled by the 
hollows of the dunes, a sort of hail of grains of sand carried 
by the wind and thrown against tufts of dried grass ; for it 
has been remarked that the phenomenon is produced in the 
vicinity of small plants parched by the sun and hard as 
parchment. 

"This drum is therefore nothing more than a sort of 
mirage of sound. That's all. But this I learned only later. 

"I go on to my second experience. 

"It was last winter, in a forest in the northeast of France. 
Night fell two hours before its time because the sky was 
overcast. My guide was a peasant who walked at my side, 
along a very narrow path, beneath an arch of fir-trees 
through which the howling wind roared. Between the tops 



FRIGHT 223 

I saw the scattered clouds sweep by, clouds distracted, as 
though fleeing before something fearful. At times, hit by 
a strong gust, the whole forest bowed down in the same 
direction, with a groan as of suffering; and the cold pene- 
trated me in spite of my rapid pace and my heavy clothing. 

"We were to have supper and lodging at the home of a 
forest guard whose house was not very far away. I was 
going there to hunt. 

"My guide every now and then raised his eyes, muttering, 
'Miserable weather !' Then he spoke to me about the people 
to whose house we were going. The father had killed a 
poacher two years before, and since that time he seemed 
melancholy, as though haunted by the memory of his act. 
His two married sons lived with him. 

"It was pitch dark. I saw nothing in front of me, nor 
around me, and the trees clashing with one another filled the 
night with a ceaseless rumble. At last I saw a light and 
presently my companion was knocking at a door. We 
were answered by the shrill cries of women. Then a man's 
voice, a choked voice, asked 'Who's there?' My guide gave 
his name. We entered. The picture before us was one we 
shall never forget. 

"An old white-haired man, wild-eyed, a loaded gun in his 
hands, stood in the middle of the kitchen awaiting us, while 
two husky fellows, armed with axes, guarded the door. In 
the dark corners I made out two women on their knees, their 
faces turned towards the wall. 

"They explained. The old man placed his weapon against 
the wall and ordered my room to be made ready ; and as the 
women did not budge he said to me, gruffly : 

' 'You see, Monsieur, I killed a man, two years ago to- 
night. Last year he came back and called my name. I am 
expecting him again tonight!' 

"And he added, in a tone which almost made me smile: 



224 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

" 'So we are not very calm/ 

"I removed his fears as best I could/ pleased to have come 
on just this evening, when I could witness this display ot 
superstitious terror. I told stories, and succeeded somewhat 
in calming nearly all of them. 

"Near the fireplace an old dog, shaggy-haired and almost 
blind, one of those dogs who seemed to resemble someone 
whom we know, lay asleep, his nose between his paws. 

"Outside the furious storm beat upon the little house, 
and through a narrow window, a sort of peep-hole placed 
near the door, I saw every now and then, in the flashes of 
the lightning, a confusion of trees jostled about by the wind. 

"In spite of my efforts I could feel that a profound terror 
gripped these people, and every time I stopped speaking 
every ear was turned as though to catch a distant sound. 
Tired of witnessing these foolish fears, I was about to ask 
to be shown to my room, when the old guard made a sudden 
bound from his chair, again seized his gun, and exclaimed in 
a wild and broken voice: 'Here he is ! Here he is ! I hear 
him!' The two women again fell to their knees in their 
corners, hiding their faces ; and the sons again took up their 
axes. I was once more going to try to calm them when the 
sleeping dog roused himself abruptly, and, raising his head, 
stretching out his neck, gazing into the fire with his dimmed 
eyes, he gave forth one of those mournful howls which so 
often startle travelers at night in the country. All eyes 
were centered on him, but he remained motionless, erect on 
his feet as though haunted by a vision, and began to howl 
towards some invisible object, unknown, fearful, no doubt, 
because his hair was bristling. The guard, pale, cried: 'He 
scents him! He scents him! He was there when I killed 
him/ And the two women, both utterly distracted, began 
to howl with the dog. 

"In spite of myself I felt a cold shiver between my shoul- 



FRIGHT 225 

ders. The sight of that animal in that position at that hour, 
in the midst of those excited people, was frightful to see. 

"So for an hour the dog howled without moving; he 
howled like someone in the agony of a dream; and fright, 
terrible fright, took hold of me. Fright of what? Do I 
know? It was fright, that's all. 

"We remained motionless, pale, awaiting some ghastly 
outcome, alert, with beating heart, upset at the least noise- 
And the dog began to walk around the room, sniffing the 
walls and growling constantly. That beast drove us mad! 
Presently my guide grabbed him in a sort of paroxysm of 
furious terror, and, opening a door which gave upon a small 
court, he pitched the animal out. 

"The dog immediately became quiet; and we remained in 
a spell of silence even more terrifying. Suddenly all of us 
together gave a start; some being scraped against the wall 
on the outside in the direction of the forest ; it passed against 
the door, groping along as with a hesitating hand; then we 
heard nothing for about two minutes, which almost drove us 
insane; then it came back, continually grazing the wall; 
there was a light scratching, such as a child might make 
with its nails ; then all of a sudden a head appeared against 
the glass of the peep-hole, a white head with two glistening 
eyes like those of a deer. And a sound came from its mouth, 
an indistinct sound, a plaintive murmur. 

"Then there was the noise of a great explosion in the 
kitchen. The old guard had fired. Quickly the sons rushed* 
forth and stopped up the peep-hole by putting the table 
against it, buttressing it with the sideboard. And I vow 
that at the crash of the gun-shot, which I was not expecting, 
I felt such a depression of the heart, the soul, and the body, 
that I was near collapsing, ready to die from fright. 

"We remained there until dawn, unable to move or to say 
a word, spellbound by an unspeakable terror. 



226 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"We did not dare to free the door of its barricade until we 
saw through a crack at the top a thin ray of daylight. 

"At the foot of the wall, against the door, the old dog lay, 
his jaw shattered by a bullet. 

"He had escaped from the yard by digging a hole beneath 
the fence. " 

The man with the tanned face stopped talking; then he 
added : 

"That night, however, I ran no risk of danger; yet I 
should rather experience again every hour in which I was 
confronted with the most terrible perils than that single 
minute of the shot of that gun at the bearded head against 
the peep-hole." 



TWO FRIENDS 1 

By GUY DE MAUPASSANT 

Paris was blockaded, famished, at the last gasp. Spar- 
rows were scarce on the roofs, and the sewers depleted of 
their rats. Every mortal thing was being eaten. 

Strolling sadly along the outer boulevard on a fine Janu- 
ary morning, with his hands in the pockets of his military 
trousers, and his stomach empty, M. Morissot, a watch- 
maker by profession, and a man of his ease when he had the 
chance, caught sight of a friend, and stopped. This was M. 
Sauvage, an acquaintance he had made out fishing. 

For before the war Morissot had been in the habit of 
starting out at dawn every Sunday, rod in hand, and a tin 
box on his back. He would take the train to Argenteuil, 2 
get out at Colombes, then go on foot as far as the Island of 
Marante. The moment he reached this Elysium of his 
dreams he would begin to fish, and fish till night. Every 
Sunday he met there a little round and jovial man, this M. 
Sauvage, a haberdasher of Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, also 
a perfect fanatic at fishing. They would often pass half the 
day side by side, rod in hand, feet dangling above the stream, 
and in this manner had become fast friends. Some days they 
did not talk, other days they did. But they understood each 
other admirably without words, for their tastes and feelings 
were identical. 

On spring mornings, about ten o'clock, when the young 
sun was raising a faint mist above the quiet-flowing river, 

1. From Yvette and Other Stories. Translated by Mrs. John Gals- 
worthy and printed by permission of the publisher, Alfred A. Knopf, 
New York. 

2. A town six miles out from Paris. 

227 



228 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

and blessing the backs of those two passionate fishermen 
with a pleasant warmth, Morissot would murmur to his 
neighbor: "I say, isn't it heavenly ?" and M. Sauvage would 
reply: "Couldn't be j oilier !" It was quite enough to make 
them understand and like each other. 

Or in autumn, towards sunset, when the blood-red 
sky and crimson clouds were reflected in the water, the whole 
river stained with color, the horizon flaming, when our two 
friends looked as red as fire, and the trees, already russet and 
shivering at the touch of winter, were turned to gold, M. 
Sauvage would look smilingly at Morissot, and remark: 
"What a sight I" and Morissot, not taking his eyes off his 
float, would reply ecstatically: "Bit better than it is in 
town, eh?" 

Having made sure of each other, they shook hands heart- 
ily, quite moved at meeting again in such different circum- 
stances. M. Sauvage, heaving a sigh, murmured: "Nice 
state of things!" Morissot, very gloomy, quavered out: 
"And what weather ! Today's the first fine day this year !" 

The sky was indeed quite blue and full of light. 

They moved on, side by side, ruminative, sad. Morissot 
pursued his thought: "And fishing, eh? What jolly times 
we used to have !" 

"Ah !" muttered M. Sauvage. "When shall we go fishing 
again?" 

They entered a little cafe, took an absinthe together, and 
started off once more, strolling along the pavement. 

Suddenly Morissot halted: "Another nip?" he said. 

"Right-o !" responded M. Sauvage. And in they went to 
another wine-shop. They came out rather light-headed, 
affected by so much alcohol on their starving stomachs. The 
day was mild, and a soft breeze caressed their faces. 

M. Sauvage, to whose light-headedness this warmth was 



TWO FRIENDS 229 

putting the finishing touch, stopped short: "I say — suppose 
we go !" 

"What d'you mean?" 

"Fishing!" 

"Where?" 

"Why, at our island. The French outposts are close to 
Colombes. I know Colonel Dumoulin; he'll be sure to let us 
pass." 

Morissot answered, quivering with eagerness : "All right ; 
I'm on !" And they parted, to get their fishing gear. 

An hour later they were marching along the high road. 
They came presently to the villa occupied by the Colonel, 
who, much amused by their whim, gave them leave. And 
furnished with his permit, they set off again. 

They soon passed the outposts, and, traversing the aban- 
doned village of Colombes, found themselves at the edge of 
the little vineyard fields that run down to the Seine. It 
was about eleven o'clock. 

The village of Argenteuil, opposite, seemed quite deserted. 
The heights of Orgemont and Sannois commanded the whole 
countryside; the great plain stretching to Nanterre was 
empty, utterly empty of all but its naked cherry-trees and 
its gray earth. 

M. Sauvage jerking his thumb towards the heights, mut- 
tered: "The Prussians are up there!" And disquietude 
stole into the hearts of the two friends, looking at that de- 
serted land. The Prussians ! They had never seen any, but 
they had felt them there for months, all around Paris, 
bringing ruin to France, bringing famine; pillaging, mas- 
sacring; invisible, yet invincible. And a sort of supersti- 
tious terror went surging through their hatred for this 
unknown and victorious race. 

Morissot stammered: "I say — suppose we were to meet 
some?" 



230 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

With that Parisian jocularity which nothing can repress 
M. Sauvage replied: "We'd give 'em some fried fish." 

None the less, daunted by the silence all round, they 
hesitated to go further. 

At last M. Sauvage took the plunge. "Come on ! But we 
must keep our eyes skinned !" 

They got down into a vineyard, where they crept along, all 
eyes and ears, bent double, taking cover behind every bush. 

There was still a strip of open ground to cross before they 
could get to the riverside ; they took it at the double, and the 
moment they reached the bank plumped down amongst some 
osiers. 

Morissot glued his ear to the ground for any sound of 
footsteps. Nothing ! They were alone, utterly alone. 

They plucked up spirit again, and began to fish. 

In front of them the Island of Marante, uninhabited, hid 
them from the far bank. The little island restaurant was 
closed, and looked as if it had been abandoned for years. 

M. Sauvage caught the first gudgeon, Morissot the second, 
and every minute they kept pulling in their lines with a little 
silvery creature wriggling at the end. Truly a miraculous 
draught of fishes ! 

They placed their spoil carefully in a very fine-meshed net 
suspended in the water at their feet, and were filled by the 
delicious joy that visits those who know once more a pleasure 
of which they have been deprived too long. 

The good sun warmed their shoulders; they heard noth- 
ing, thought of nothing, were lost to the world. They fished. 

But suddenly a dull boom, which seemed to come from 
underground, made the earth tremble. The bombardment 
had begun again. 

Morissot turned his head. Away above the bank he could 
see on the left the great silhouette of Mont Valerien, show- 
ing a white plume high up — an ashy puff just belched forth. 



TWO FRIENDS 231 

Then a second spurt of smoke shot up from the fort's 
summit, and some seconds afterwards was heard the roar 
of the gun. 

Then more and more. Every minute the hill shot forth 
its deadly breath, sighed out milky vapors that rose slowly 
to the calm heaven, and made a crown of cloud. 

M. Sauvage shrugged his shoulders. "At it again !" he 
said. , 

Morissot, who was anxiously watching the bobbing of his 
float, was seized with the sudden fury of a man of peace 
against these maniacs battering at each other, and he growled 
out: "Idiots I call them, killing each other like that !" 

"Worse than the beasts !" said M. Sauvage. And Morissot, 
busy with a fish, added: "It'll always be like that, in my 
opinion, so long as we have governments." 

M. Sauvage cut him short. "The Republic would never 
have declared war " 

Morissot broke in: "Under a monarchy you get war 
against your neighbors; under a republic — war amongst 
yourselves." 

And they began tranquilly discussing and unravelling 
momentous political problems with the common sense of two 
gentle, narrow creatures, who agreed at any rate on this 
one point, that Man would never be free. 

And Mont Valerien thundered without ceasing, shattering 
with its shells the homes of France, pounding out life, crush- 
ing human beings, putting an end to many a dream, to many 
a longed-for joy, to many a hoped-for happiness; opening 
everywhere, too, in the hearts of wives, of girls, of mothers, 
wounds that would never heal. 

"That's life!" declared M. Sauvage. 

"I should call it death," said Morissot, and laughed. 

They both gave a sudden start ; there was surely someone 
coming up behind them. Turning their eyes they saw, 



232 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

standing close to their very elbows, four men, four big 
bearded men, dressed in a sort of servant's livery, with flat 
caps on their heads, pointing rifles at them. 

The rods fell from their hands and floated off down- 
stream. 

In a few seconds, they were seized, bound, thrown into a 
boat, and taken over to the island. 

Behind the house that they had thought deserted they 
perceived some twenty German soldiers. 

A sort of hairy giant, smoking a great porcelain pipe, and 
sitting astride of a chair, said in excellent French: "Well, 
gentlemen, what luck fishing ?" 

Whereupon a soldier laid at his officer's feet the net full 
of fish, which he had carefully brought along. 

The Prussian smiled. "I see — not bad. But we've other 
fish to fry. Now listen to me, and keep cool. I regard you 
two as spies sent to watch me. I take you, and I shoot you. 
You were pretending to fish, the better to disguise your 
plans. You've fallen into my hands ; so much the worse for 
you. That's war. But, seeing that you passed through your 
outposts, you must assuredly have been given the password 
to get back again. Give it me, and I'll let you go/' 

Livid, side by side, the two friends were silent, but their 
hands kept jerking with little nervous movements. 

The officer continued: "No one will ever know; it will 
be all right; you can go home quite easy in your minds. If 
you refuse, it's death — instant death. Choose." 

They remained motionless, without a word. 

The Prussian, calm as ever, stretched out his hand towards 
the water, and said: "Think! In five minutes you'll be at 
the bottom of that river. In five minutes. You've got fami- 
lies, I suppose?" 

Mont Valerien went on thundering. The two fishermen 
stood there silent. 



TWO FRIENDS 233 

The German gave an order in his own language. Then 
he moved his chair so as not to be too near his prisoners. 
Twelve men came forward, took their stand twenty paces 
away, and grounded arms. 

The officer said: "I give you one minute; not a second 

more." 

And, getting up abruptly, he approached the two French- 
men, took Morissot by the arm, and, drawing him aside, 
whispered : "Quick, that password. Your friend need never 
know. It will only look as if I'd relented. Morissot made 
no answer. 

Then the Prussian took M. Sauvage apart, and asked him 
the same question. 

M. Sauvage did not reply. 

Once again they were side by side. The officer gave a 
word of command. The soldiers raised their rifles. 

At that moment Morissot's glance lighted on the net full 
of gudgeons lying on the grass a few paces from him. The 
sunshine was falling on that glittering heap of fishes, still 
full of life. His spirit sank. In spite of all effort his eyes 
filled with tears. 

"Adieu, M. Sauvage I" he stammered out. 

M. Sauvage answered: "Adieu, M. Morissot." 

They grasped each other's hands, shaken from head to 
foot by a trembling that they could not control. 

"Fire !" cried the officer. 

Twelve shots rang out as one. 

M. Sauvage fell forward like a log. Morissot, the taller, 
wavered, spun round, and came down across his comrade, 
his face upturned to the sky; blood spurted from his tunic, 
torn across the chest. 

The German gave another order. His men dispersed. 
They came back with ropes and stones, which they fastened 
to the feet of the two dead friends, whom they carried to the 



234 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

river bank. And Mont Valerien never ceased rumbling, 
crowned now with piled-up clouds of smoke. 

Two of the soldiers took Morissot by the head and heels, 
two others laid hold of M. Sauvage. The bodies, swung 
violently to and fro, were hurled forward, described a curve, 
then plunged upright into the river, where the stones dragged 
them down feet first. 

The water splashed up, bubbled, wrinkled, then fell calm 
again, and tiny waves rippled out towards the banks. 

A few bloodstains floated away out there. 

The officer, calm as ever, said quietly: "It's the fish 
who've got the luck now I" and went back towards the house. 

But suddenly catching sight of the net full of gudgeons 
on the grass, he took it up, looked it over, smiled, and called 
out: "Willielm!" 

A soldier in a white apron came running up. The Prussian 
threw him the spoil of the two dead fishermen. 

"Get these little affairs fried at once while they're still 
alive. First-rate like that I" 

And he went back to his pipe. 



THE HAND 1 

By GUY DE MAUPASSANT 

We formed a circle around Monsieur Bermutier, Exam- 
ining Magistrate/ as he gave his version of the mysterious 
affair at St. Cloud. 3 For a month this inexplicable crime 
baffled Paris. No one understood it. 

Monsieur Berrautier, standing with his back to the fire- 
place^ spoke, summing up the proof, discussing the different 
opinions, but coming to no conclusion himself. 

Several women had risen to come closer and remained 
standing, their eyes fixed on the clean-shaven mouth of the 
magistrate from which fell the grave words. They shivered 
and shuddered, thrilled by their curious fear, by the greedy 
and insatiable need of excitement which haunted their souls, 
torturing them like hunger. 

One of them, paler than the others, remarked, during a 
moment of silence: 

"It's frightful. It verges on the supernatural. Xo one 
will ever know/' 

The magistrate turned toward her: 

"Yes, madame, it is probable that we shall never know 
anything about it. As for the word 'supernatural' which 
you just used, it has no connection here. We are in the 
presence of a crime very well known, very commonly enacted, 
but so completely enveloped in mystery that it is impossible 
to disentangle it from the impenetrable circumstances which 

1. Translated by Louis LaCroix. 

2. In France, an officer appointed by the court to make an impar- 
tial investigation of a crime. 

3. A town some miles away from Paris. 

235 



236 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

surround it. But I had to follow up an affair once where 
truly there seemed to be an element of the fantastic. It had 
to be abandoned, moreover, through lack of means to solve it." 

Several of the ladies said at once, speaking so quickly 
that their voices sounded as one: 

"Oh! tell us about it." 

Monsieur Bermutier smiled gravely, as an Examining 
Magistrate should smile. He continued: 

"Don't think, though, that I was able, even for a moment, 
to persuade myself to believe there was anything super- 
human in this adventure. I believe in normal causes only. 
But if, instead of employing the word 'supernatural' to 
express that which we do not understand, we use simply 
the word 'inexplicable/ that would be much better. At all 
events, in the affair about which I am going to tell you, it is 
particularly the surrounding circumstances, the preparatory 
circumstances, which stirred me. In fine, here are the facts : 

"I was the Examining Magistrate at Ajaccio, 4 a little 
white village nestling picturesquely on the edge of a gulf, 
surrounded on all sides by high mountains. 

"My special business there was an investigation of the 
activities connected with the vendettas. 5 One finds some of 
these feuds superb, some dramatic to the utmost, some 
ferocious, some heroic. We find there the most striking cases 
of vengeance imaginable, hatreds a hundred years old, 
allayed for a while, but never extinct; execrable ruses; 
assassinations which take on the proportions of massacres, 
and deeds that are almost glorious. ^ For two years I heard 
speak of nothing but the price of blood, of that terrible Cor- 
sican custom which seeks to revenge every injury on the. 
person of him who committed it, on his descendants and his 

4. The capital of Corsica. The island of Corsica is a province of 
France. 

5. A vendetta is the mode of self -redress by which fellow-kinsmen 
were bound to take vengeance for any personal injury done to a mem- 
ber of their clan or family. 



THE HAND 237 

kin. I saw old men butchered, and children, together with 
their blood relations. My head was full of such stories. 

"One day I learned that an Englishman had just leased 
for several years a little villa just back from the gulf. He 
had brought with him a French domestic, hired as he passed 
through Marseilles. 6 

"Soon every one busied himself about this strange indi- 
vidual who lived all by himself, coming out only to hunt 
and to fish. He spoke to no one, never came to town, and 
every morning, for an hour or two, practiced shooting with 
the pistol and the rifle. 

"He became the subject of queer stories. The gossip 
ran that he was a man of high rank who had fled his country 
for political reasons; and some insisted that he had com- 
mitted a terrible crime and was hiding. Some even supplied 
the horrible details. 

"As Examining Magistrate I wanted to get hold of some 
information about the man, but it was impossible to learn 
anything. He went by the name of Sir John Rowell. 

"So I contented myself with merely keeping a close 
watch; but in truth, nothing seemed to justify a suspicion 
of him. 

"However, as the rumors about him continued, grew more 
sweeping, more general, I resolved to try to see this stranger 
myself, and I began hunting regularly in the vicinity of 
his estate. 

"I waited a long time for an opportunity. It presented 
itself, finally, in the form of a partridge which I shot and 
killed under the very nose of the Englishman. My dog 
fetched it, but I as quickly seized the fowl and went to 
excuse my impropriety, begging Sir John Rowell to accept 
the dead bird. 

6. The largest port in southern France and the point of departure 
for Corsica. 



238 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"He was a big man with red hair, red beard, very tall, 
well proportioned, a sort of Hercules, placid and polite. He 
had none of the reputed British stiffness, and he hastened 
to thank me for my courtesy in a French strongly marked 
with an English accent. In the course of a month we had 
conversed five or six times. 

"Finally one evening, as I passed by his house, I noticed 
him sitting straddle on a chair in his garden, smoking a 
pipe. I greeted him and he invited me in to have a glass 
of beer with him. He did not have to ask me twice. 

"He received me with all the meticulous courtesy of the 
English, spoke in glowing terms of France and of Corsica, 
declaring that he greatly liked this country and this coast. 

"So I asked him, with much precaution, under the sem- 
blance of lively interest, several questions about his life 
and his experiences. He answered me without embarrass- 
ment, telling me that he had traveled much in Africa, in 
the Indies, in America. He added laughingly : 

" 'I've had many adventures, oh! ouiS 

"Then I resumed the conversation about hunting; he gave 
me the most curious details about hunting hippopotami, 
tigers, elephants, and even about hunting gorillas. 

"I remarked: 

" 'Those are all formidable animals.' 

"He smiled: 

" 'Oh ! no. The most formidable is man/ 

"He burst into a laugh, the hearty laugh of a big, 
contented Englishman. He continued: 

" Tve hunted men a great deal, too/ 

"And he spoke of weapons, asking me into the house to 
show me his collection of guns of various makes. 

"His living room was draped in black, black silk embroid- 
ered with gold. Large yellow flowers bedecked the somber 
cloth, shining like fire. 



THE HAND 239 

"He explained: 

" 'This is a Japanese tapestry.' 

"In the center of the largest panel a strange thing attracted 
my eye. On a square of red velvet a black object dangled. 
I approached it; it was a hand, the hand of a man. Not 
the hand of a skeleton, white and clean, but a shriveled-up 
black hand, with yellow fingernails, the muscles exposed, 
with traces of dried clots of blood on the bones, which were 
cut bluntly as by the stroke of an ax, about the middle of 
the forearm. 

"Around the wrist a heavy iron chain was riveted and 
soldered, attaching this ghastly member to the wall by a 
ring strong enough to' hold an elephant in leash. 

"I asked: 

"'What's that?' 

"The Englishman answered calmly: 

' 'That was my most formidable enemy. It comes from 
America. It was cut off with a sword and the skin torn off 
with a sharpened stone and dried in the sun for eight days. 
Oh, that was all right for me, that was/ 

"I touched this bit of human debris, which must have 
belonged to a colossus. The fingers, unusually long, were 
held by enormous tendons which still retained strips of 
skin in places. That hand was a fearful thing to look at, 
skinned like that. It very naturally made one think of some 
savage kind of vengeance. 

"I said: 

" 'That man must have been very strong.' 

"The Englishman answered calmly: 

' 'Oh, yes ; but I was stronger than he. I have put on 
that chain to hold him.' 

"I thought that he was joking. I continued: 

' 'That chain is quite useless now; the hand will not run 
away.' 



240 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"Sir John Rowell resumed gravely: 

" 'It has constantly threatened to run away. That chain 
is necessary/ 

"I glanced inquiringly at the expression on his f ace, asking 
myself : 

" 'Is he crazy, or just a morbid joker?' 

"But his face remained impenetrable, calm, and benevo- 
lent. I spoke of other things, and admired his guns. 

"I noticed, too, that on the table there were three loaded 
pistols, as though the man lived in constant fear of being 
attacked. 

"I visited him several times more. Then I stopped going. 
The community became accustomed to his presence; he was 
no longer the special object of attention to any one. 

"A whole year elapsed. But one morning, toward the end 
of November, my servant awoke me with the news that Sir 
John Rowell had been assassinated during the night. 

"A half hour later I entered the house of the Englishman, 
together with the president of the police board and the chief 
of police. The valet, distracted and in despair, stood outside 
the door, weeping. At first I suspected him, but he was 
innocent. 

"The guilty party has never been found. 

"Upon entering the living room of Sir John Rowell the 
first thing which met my eyes was the corpse, stretched 
on its back, in the middle of the floor. 

"The vest was torn, a detached sleeve hung loose, and 
everything indicated that a terrible struggle had taken place. 

"The Englishman had been strangled! His face, black 
and swollen, was dreadful and seemed to show signs of a 
horrible fright. Between his teeth, closed tight, he held 
something; and in his neck were five holes which seemed 
made with points of steel and were covered with blood. 



THE HAND 241 

"A doctor joined us. He examined for a long time the 
torn flesh where the fingers had plowed through, and spoke 
these strange words: 

" 'It looks as though he had been strangled by a skeleton/ 

"A chill crept over me, and I cast my eyes on the wall, 
at the spot where I had seen that horrible hand with the 
skin torn off. It was no longer there. The broken chain 
only dangled there. 

"Then I stooped over the corpse and noticed, in the mouth, 
held tightly, one of the fingers of that vanished hand, cut, 
or rather sawed off by the teeth at the second joint. 

"Then we proceeded with the investigation. We discov- 
ered nothing. No door had been broken, no window, no 
furniture. The two watch-dogs had not been awakened. 

"Here, in a few words, is the deposition of the servant: 

"For a month his employer had seemed troubled. He 
had received many letters, all of which he burned imme- 
diately. 

"Often, taking a riding- whip, in a fit of anger which 
bordered on madness, he struck with fury the shriveled 
hand fastened to the wall, and detached, no one knows how, 
at the very hour of the crime. 

"He went to bed very late and carefully locked himself in. 
He always kept weapons at hand. Often, at night, he spoke 
out loud as though he were quarreling with some one. 

"This particular night, however, he had made no noise, 
and it was only when he came to open the windows that the 
servant found Sir John Rowell assassinated. He suspected 
no one. 

"I told the magistrates and the officers of the police what I 
knew about the dead man, and a minute inquiry was made 
on the whole island. No clue was found. 

"Then, one night, three months after the crime, I had a 
fearful nightmare. It seemed to me that I saw the hand, 



242 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

that horrible hand, run like a scorpion or a spider along my 
curtains and my walls. Three times I awoke, three times 
I went back to sleep, three times I saw that hideous hand 
gallop around my room, moving its fingers like claws. 

"The next day it was brought to me, having been found 
in the cemetery, on the tomb of Sir John Rowell, who was 
buried there; for we had been unable to locate his family. 
The index finger was missing. 

"There, ladies, you have my story. I know nothing more 
about it." 

The women were aghast, pale, trembling. One of them 
exclaimed : 

"But that is not a denouement, or an explanation. We 
shall not sleep if you do not tell us what your theory is." 

The magistrate smiled with an air of seriousness : 

"Oh, of course, ladies. I shall prevent your having bad 
dreams. I think it was simply that the legitimate owner 
of the hand was not dead ; that he came back to get it with 
the remaining hand. I have been unable to understand, 
though, how he did it. In that respect it is a sort of ven- 
detta." 

One of the women remarked slowly : 

"No, it could hardly have been that." 

The Examining Magistrate, still smiling, concluded: 

"I told you at the beginning that my explanation would 
not satisfy you." 



DAUDET 

(1840-1897) 

Alphonse Daudet was born in Provence, a district of 
southern France, in 1840. Owing to family misfortunes his 
education was irregular. While yet a boy he went to Lyons 
and later to Paris, where he eventually received his first 
recognition as a writer. He was for many years connected 
with Le Figaro, one of the most influential journals of Paris. 
This association gave Daudet's charming personality an 
opportunity to manifest itself, and he became a member of 
the select circle of literary men which included Flaubert, 
Zola, the Goncourt brothers, and others. 

However, in spite of the many years in Paris, Daudet 
never outgrew his love for his native Provence, and much of 
his characteristic work deals with the life and people of a 
part of France which has lingered gently within the border- 
land of romance. Fortunately Daudet did not allow this 
feeling to carry him over into mere rhapsody. He saw the 
humorous side of his fellow Provencals, and at times he 
even burlesques them. This is true of his best known long 
story, Tartarin de Tarascon, one of the very best pieces of 
humor that France has produced. 

Daudet was a realist, like nearly all of his contemporaries, 
but his realism was tempered by a highly colored imagina- 
tion and a nature that was essentially emotional. His real- 
ism shows perhaps best in the vivid local color with which 
he surrounds many of his plots. This he achieved by ac- 
tually putting himself into the environment which he tried 
to present. For instance, in order to write The Letters from 
My Mill — a series of sketches and short stories about that 
part of Provence in which Nimes is located — he lived for a 
time in an old windmill near that city. This book includes 
some of his best stories, such as The Death of the Dauphin, 

243 



244 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

a story full of tears, and The Pope's Mule and The Reverend 
Father Gaucher 9 s Elixir, both printed in this volume, two 
of his most effective short pieces of humor. The story 
mentioned first also illustrates Daudet's fondness for por- 
traying child life. Owing to his own early life he always 
becomes intensely emotional when writing about the afflic- 
tions of childhood. Besides a number of short stories on this 
theme, at least two of his longer novels, Le Petit Chose and 
Jack, are elaborations of the same idea. 

Daudet is at his best in the short story, and his stories are 
among the finest that were produced in a language and a 
literature second to none in this particular form of fiction. 
He always got his material from his immediate surround- 
ings, so it is no wonder that the Franco-Prussian War 
entered into his work, as it did into that of so many of 
his contemporaries. He was in Paris at the time of the 
siege, and of this he tells with remarkable vividness and 
striking originality in the Siege of Berlin. Like all his 
countrymen, he was profoundly touched by the fate of 
Alsace, and no native Alsatian could exceed Daudet in the 
feeling of despair which he expresses in The Last Lesson, 
one of the stories selected for this volume. 

Daudet spent most of his life in Paris, where he died on 
December 16, 1897. 



THE LAST LESSON 1 

By ALPHONSE DAUDET 

That morning it was quite late before I started for 
school, and I was terribly afraid I should be scolded, 
for Monsieur Hamel had told us that he would question us 
upon participles, and I did not know the first thing about 
them. For a moment I thought of escaping from school and 
roving through the fields. 

The day was so warm, so clear! The blackbirds were 
whistling on the outskirts of the woods. In Rippert 
Meadow, behind the sawmill, the Prussians were drilling. 
All these things were far more attractive to me than the 
rule for the use of participles. But I mustered up strength 
to resist temptation, and hurried on to school. 

As I reached the town hall, I saw a group of people; 
they loitered before the little grating, reading the placards 
posted upon it. For two years every bit of bad news had 
been anounced to us from that grating. There we read what 
battles had been lost, what requisitions made; there we 
learned what orders had issued from headquarters. And 
though I did not pause with the rest, I wondered to myself, 
"What can be the matter now?" . 

As I ran across the square, Wachter, the blacksmith, who, 
in company with his apprentice, was absorbed in reading the 
notice, exclaimed, — 

"Not so fast, child ! You will reach school soon enough V* 

I believed he was making game of me, and I was quite 
out of breath when I entered Monsieur HameFs small 
domain. 

1. Translated by Marian Mclntyre. Copyright, 1899, by Little, 
Brown and Company. 

245 



246 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

Now, at the beginning of the session there was usually 
such an uproar that it could be heard as far as the street. 
Desks were opened and shut, lessons recited at the top of our 
voices, all shouting together, each of us stopping his ears 
that he might hear better. Then the master's big ruler would 
descend upon his desk, and he would say, — 

"Silence !" 

I counted upon making my entrance in the midst of the 
usual babel and reaching my seat unobserved, but upon 
this particular morning all was hushed. Sabbath stillness 
reigned. Through the open window I could see that my 
comrades had already taken their seats; I could see Mon- 
sieur Hamel himself, passing back and forth, his formidable 
iron ruler under his arm. 

I must open that door. I must enter in the midst of that 
deep silence. I need not tell you that I grew red in the 
face, and terror seized me. 

But, strangely enough, as Monsieur Hamel scrutinized 
me, there was no anger in his gaze. He said very gently, — 

"Take your seat quickly, my little Franz. We were going 
to begin without you/' 

I climbed over the bench, and seated myself.. But when 
I had recovered a little from my fright, I noticed that our 
master had donned his beautiful green frock-coat, his finest 
frilled shirt, and his embroidered black silk calotte, 2 which 
he wore only on inspection days, or upon those occasions 
when prizes were distributed. Moreover, an extraordinary 
solemnity had taken possession of my classmates. But the 
greatest surprise of all came when my eye fell upon the 
benches at -the farther end of the room. Usually they were 
empty, but upon this morning the villagers were seated 
there, solemn as ourselves. There sat old Hauser, with his 
three-cornered hat, there sat the venerable mayor, the aged 

2. The skull-cap worn by teachers. 



THE LAST LESSON 247 

carrier, and other personages of importance. All of our 
visitors seemed sad, and Hauser had brought with him an 
old primer, chewed at the edges. It lay wide open upon 
his knees, his big spectacles reposing upon the page. 

While I was wondering at all these things, Monsieur 
Hamel had taken his seat, and in the same grave and gentle 
tone in which he had greeted me, he said to us, — 

"My children, this is the last day I shall teach you. The 
order has come from Berlin that henceforth in the schools 
of Alsace and Lorraine 3 all instruction shall be given in 
the German tongue only. Your new master will arrive 
tomorrow. Today you hear the last lesson you will receive 
in French, and I beg you will be most attentive." 

My "last" French lesson! And I scarcely knew how to 
write ! Now I should never learn. My education must be 
cut short. How I grudged at that moment every minute I 
had lost, every lesson I had missed for the sake of hunting 
birds' nests or making slides upon the Saar ! 4 And those 
books which a moment before were so dry and dull, so heavy 
to carry, my grammar, my Bible-history, seemed now to 
wear the faces of old friends, whom I could not bear to bid 
farewell. It was with them as with Monsieur Hamel, the 
thought that he was about to leave, that I should see him 
no more, made me forget all the blows of his ruler, and the 
many punishments I had received. 

Poor man! It was in honor of that last session that he 
was arrayed in his finest Sunday garb, and now I began to 
understand why the villagers had gathered at the back of 
the class-room. Their presence at such a moment seemed 
to express regret that they had not visited that school-room 
of tener ; it was their way of telling our master they thanked 

3. Two French provinces taken from France by the Germans after 
the war of 1870. 

4. A river in Alsace-Lorraine. 



248 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

him for forty years of faithful service, and desired to pay 
their respects to the land whose empire was departing. 

I was busied with these reflections when I heard my 
name called. It was now my turn to recite. Ah! what 
would I not have given then, had I been able to repeat from 
beginning to end that famous rule for the use of participles 
loudly, distinctly, and without a single mistake; but I 
became entangled in the first few words, and remained 
standing at my seat, swinging from side to side, my heart 
swelling. I dared not raise my head. Monsieur Hamel 
was addressing me. 

"I shall not chide thee, my little Franz ; thy punishment 
will be great enough. So it is ! We say to ourselves each 
day, 'Bah! I have time enough. I will learn tomorrow.' 
And now see what results. Ah, it has ever been the greatest 
misfortune of our Alsace that she was willing to put off 
learning till Tomorrow! And now these foreigners can 
say to us, and justly, 'What! you profess to be Frenchmen, 
and can neither speak nor write your own language?' And 
in all this, my poor Franz, you are not the chief culprit. 
Each of us has something to reproach himself with. 

"Your parents have not shown enough anxiety about 
having you educated. They preferred to see you spinning, 
or tilling the soil, since that brought them in a few more 
sous. 5 And have I nothing with which to reproach myself ? 
Did I not often send you to water my garden when you 
should have been at your tasks? And if I wished to go 
trout-fishing, was my conscience in the least disturbed when 
I gave you a holiday?" 

One topic leading to another, Monsieur Hamel began to 

speak of the French language, saying it was the strongest, 

clearest, most beautiful language in the world, which we 

must keep as our heritage, never allowing it to be forgotten, 

5. A sou is worth one cent. 



THE LAST LESSON 249 

telling us that when a nation has become enslaved, she holds 
the key which shall unlock her prison as long as she pre- 
serves her native tongue. 

Then he took a grammar, and read our lesson to us, and 
I was amazed to see how well I understood. Everything 
he said seemed so very simple, so easy! I had never, I 
believe, listened to any one as I listened to him at that 
moment, and never before had he shown so much patience 
in his explanations. It really seemed as if the poor man, 
anxious to impart everything he knew before he took leave 
of us, desired to strike a single blow that might drive all 
his knowledge into our heads at once. 

The lesson was followed by writing. For this occasion 
Monsieur Hamel had prepared some copies that were en- 
tirely new, and upon these were written in a beautiful round 
hand, "Prance, Alsace! France, Alsace!" 

These words were as inspiring as the sight of the tiny 
flags attached to the rod of our desks. It was good to see 
how each one applied himself, and how silent it was ! Not 
a sound save the scratching of pens as they touched our 
papers. Once, indeed, some cockchafers entered the room, 
but no one paid the least attention to them, not even the 
tiniest pupil; for the youngest were absorbed in tracing 
their straight strokes as earnestly and conscientiously as if 
these too were written in French ! On the roof of the school- 
house the pigeons were cooing softly, and I thought to 
myself as I listened, "And must they also be compelled to 
sing in German?" 

From time to time, looking up from my page, I saw 
Monsieur Hamel, motionless in his chair, his eyes riveted 
upon each object about him, as if he desired to fix in his 
mind, and forever, every detail of his little school. Remem- 
ber that for forty years he had been constantly at his post, 
in that very school-room, facing the same playground. Little 



250 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

had changed. The desks and benches were polished and 
worn, through long use ; the walnut-trees in the playground 
had grown taller; and the hop-vine he himself had planted 
curled its tendrils about the windows, running even to the 
roof. What anguish must have filled the poor man's heart, 
as he thought of leaving all these things, and heard his 
sister moving to and fro in the room overhead, busied in 
fastening their trunks! For on the morrow they were to 
leave the country, never to return. Nevertheless, his courage 
did not falter ; not a single lesson was omitted. After writ- 
ing came history, and then the little ones sang their "Ba, Be, 
Bi, Bo, Bu," together. Old Hauser, at the back of the room, 
had put on his spectacles, and, holding his primer in both 
hands, was spelling out the letters with the little ones. He 
too was absorbed in his task; his voice trembled with emo- 
tion, and it was so comical to hear him that we all wanted 
to laugh and to cry at the same moment. Ah ! never shall 
I forget that last lesson ! 

Suddenly the church clock struck twelve, and then the 
Angelus 6 was heard. 

At the same moment, a trumpet-blast under our window 
announced that the Prussians were returning from drill. 
Monsieur Hamel rose in his chair. He was very pale, but 
never before had he seemed to me so tall as at that moment. 

"My friends — " he said, "my friends — I — I — " 

But something choked him. He could not finish. 

Then he took a piece of chalk, and, grasping it with all 
his strength, wrote in his largest hand, — 
"Vive la France !" 

He remained standing at the blackboard, his head resting 
against the wall. He did not speak again, but a motion of 
his hand said to us, — 

"That is all. You are dismissed." 

6. The Angelus is a Catholic devotional exercise repeated at morn- 
ing, noon, and sunset upon the ringing of the church bell. 



THE POPE'S MULE 1 

By ALPHONSE DAUDET 

Of all the pretty sayings, proverbs, adages, with which 
our Provencal peasantry decorate their discourse, I know of 
none more picturesque, or more peculiar than this: — for 
fifteen leagues around my mill, 2 when they speak of a spite- 
ful and vindictive man, they say, "That fellow ! distrust him ! 
he's like the Pope's mule who kept her kick for seven years." 

I tried for a long time to find out whence that proverb 
came, what that Pope's mule was, and why she kept her kick 
for seven years. No one could give me any information on 
the subject, not even Francet Mamai, my old fife-player, 
though he knows his Provencal legends to the tips of his 
fingers. Francet thought, as I did, that there must be some 
ancient chronicle of Avignon 3 behind it, but he had never 
heard of it otherwise than as a proverb. 

"You won't find it anywhere except in the Grasshoppers' 
Library,' ' said the old man, laughing. 

This idea struck me as a good one ; and as the Grasshop- 
pers' Library is close at my door, I shut myself up there for 
over a week. 

It is a wonderful library, admirably stocked, open to poets 
night and day, and served by little librarians 4 with cymbals 
who make music for you all the time. I spent some delightful 
days there, and after a week of researches (on my back) I 

1. Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley. Copyright, 1899, 
by Little, Brown and Company. 

2. Daudet lived in an old windmill near Nimes when he wrote 
this story. 

3. A city in southern France. In the 14th century the popes lived 
in Avignon after they had been exiled from Italy. 

4. Locusts. 

251 



252 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

ended by discovering what I wanted, namely, the story of 
the mule with that famous kick which she kept for seven 
years. The tale is pretty, though rather naive, and I shall 
try to tell it to you just as I read it yesterday in a manuscript 
colored by the weather, smelling of good dried lavender and 
tied with the Virgin's threads — as they call gossamer in these 
parts. 

Whoso did not see Avignon in the days of the Popes has 
seen nothing. For gayety, life, animation, the excitement of 
festivals, never was a town like it. From morning till night 
there was nothing but processions, pilgrimages, streets 
strewn with flowers, draped with tapestries, cardinals arriv- 
ing by the Rhone, banners in the breeze, galleys dressed in 
flags, the Pope's soldiers chanting Latin on the squares, and 
the tinkling rattle of. the begging friars; while from garret 
to cellar of houses that pressed, humming, round the great 
papal palace like bees around their hive, came the tick-tack 
of lace-looms, the to-and-fro of shuttles weaving the gold 
thread of chasubles, the tap-tap of the goldsmith's chasing- 
tools tapping on the chalices, the tuning of choir-instruments 
at the lute-makers, the songs of the spinners at their work; 
and above all this rose the sound of bells, and always the echo 
of certain tambourines coming from away down there on the 
bridge of Avignon. Because, with us, when the people are 
happy they must dance — they must dance; and as in those 
days the streets were too narrow for the farandole, 5 fifes and 
tambourines posted themselves on the bridge of Avignon in 
the fresh breeze of the Rhone, and day and night folks 
danced, they danced. Ah ! the happy times ! the happy town ! 
Halberds that did not wound, prisons where the wine was put 
to cool; no hunger, no war. That's how the Popes of the 

5. A Provengal dance in which the dancers were arranged in a 
long line. 



THE POPE'S MULE 253 

Comtat 6 governed their people ; and that's why their people 
so deeply regretted them. 

There was one Pope especially, a good old man called 
Boniface. Ah ! that one, many were the tears shed in Avignon 
when he was dead. He was so amiable, so affable a prince ! 
He laughed so merrily on the back of his mule ! And when 
you passed him, were you only a poor little gatherer of mad- 
der-roots, or the grand provost of the town, he gave you his 
benediction so politely ! A real Pope of Yvetot, but a Yvetot 
of Provence, with something delicate in his laugh, a sprig of 
sweet marjoram in his cardinal's cap, and never a Jeanneton, 
— the only Jeanneton he was ever known to have, that good 
Father, was his vineyard, his own little vineyard which he 
planted himself, three leagues from Avignon, among the 
myrtles of Chateau-Neuf. 

Every Sunday, after vespers, the good man paid court 
to his vineyard; and when he was up there, sitting in the 
blessed sun, his mule near him, his cardinals stretched out 
beneath the grapevines, he would order a flask of the wine 
of his own growth to be opened, — that beautiful wine, the 
color of rubies, which is now called the Chateau-Neuf des 
Papes, and he sipped it with sips, gazing at his vineyard 
tenderly. Then, the flask empty, the day fading, he rode 
back joyously to town, the Chapter following; and when he 
crossed the bridge of Avignon through the tambourines and 
the farandoles, his mule, set going by the music, paced along 
in a skipping little amble, while he himself beat time to the 
dance with his cap, which greatly scandalized the cardinals 
but made the people say: "Ah! the good prince! Ah! the 
kind Pope I" 

What the Pope loved best in the world, next to his vine- 
yard of Chateau-Neuf, was his mule. The good man doted 
on that animal. Every evening before he went to bed he went 
6. Another name for the district including Avignon. 



254 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

to see if the stable was locked, if nothing was lacking in the 
manger ; and never did he rise from the table without seeing 
with his own eyes the preparation of a great bowl of wine 
in the French fashion with sugar and spice, which he took 
to his mule himself, in spite of the remarks of his cardinals. 
It must be said that the mule was worth the trouble. She 
was a handsome black mule, with reddish points, sure-footed, 
hide shining, back broad and full, carrying proudly her thin 
little head decked out with pompons and ribbons, silver bells 
and streamers ; gentle as an angel withal, innocent eyes, and 
two long ears, always shaking, which gave her the look of a 
downright good fellow. All Avignon respected her, and 
when she passed through the streets there were no civilities 
that the people did not pay her; for every one knew there 
was no better way to stand well at court, and that the Pope's 
mule, for all her innocent look, had led more than one man to 
fortune, — witness Tistet Vedene and his amazing adventure. 

This Tistet Vedene was, in point of fact, an impudent 
young rogue, whom his father, Guy Vedene, the goldsmith, 
had been forced to turn out of his house, because he would 
not work and only debauched the apprentices. For six 
months Tistet dragged his jacket through all the gutters of 
Avignon, but principally those near the papal palace; for 
the rascal had a notion in his head about the Pope's mule, 
and you shall now see what mischief was in it. 

One day when his Holiness was riding all alone beneath 
the ramparts, behold our Tistet approaching him and say- 
ing, with his hands clasped in admiration: 

"Ah! mon Dieu, Holy Father, what a fine mule you are 
riding ! Just let me look at her. Ah ! Pope, what a mule ! 
The Emperor of Germany hasn't her equal." 

And he stroked her and spoke to her softly as if to a 
pretty young lady : 

"Come here, my treasure, my jewel, my pearl — " 



THE POPE'S MULE 255 

And the good Pope, quite touched, said to himself: 
"What a nice young fellow; how kind he is to my mule!" 
And the next day what do you think happened? Tistet 
Vedene changed his yellow jacket for a handsome lace alb, 
a purple silk hood, shoes with buckles; and he entered the 
household of the Pope, where no one had ever yet been 
admitted but sons of nobles and nephews of cardinals. That's 
what intriguing means ! But Tistet was not satisfied with 
that. 

Once in the Pope's service, the rascal continued the game 
he had played so successfully. Insolent to every one, he 
showed attentions and kindness to none but the mule and he 
was always to be met with in the courtyards of the palace 
with a handful of oats, or a bunch of clover, shaking its pink 
blooms at the window of the Holy Father as if to say: 
"Hein ! who's that for, hey?" Time and again this happened, 
so that, at last, the good Pope, who felt himself getting old, 
left to Tistet the care of looking after the stable and of 
carrying to the mule his bowl of wine, — which did not cause 
the cardinals to laugh. 

Nor the mule either. For now, at the hour her wine was 
due she beheld half a dozen little pages of the household 
slipping hastily into the hay with their hoods and their 
laces; and then, soon after, a good warm smell of caramel 
and spices pervaded the stable, and Tistet Vedene appeared 
bearing carefully the bowl of hot wine. Then the poor ani- 
mal's martyrdom began. 

That fragrant wine she loved, which kept her warm and 
gave her wings, they had the cruelty to bring it into her 
stall and let her smell of it; then, when her nostrils were 
full of the perfume, away! and the beautiful rosy liquor 
went down the throats of those young scamps ! And not only 
did they steal her wine, but they were like devils, those young 
fellows, after they had drunk it. One pulled her ears, another 



256 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

her tail. Quinquet jumped on her back, Beluguet put his hat 
on her head, and not one of the rascals ever thought that 
with one good kick of her hind-legs the worthy animal could 
send them all to the polar star, and farther still if she chose. 
But no ! you are not the Pope's mule for nothing — that mule 
of benedictions and plenary indulgences. The lads might 
do what they liked, she was never angry with them; it was 
only Tistet Vedene whom she hated. He, indeed ! when 
she felt him behind her, her hoofs itched ; and reason enough 
too. That good-for-nothing Tistet played her such villainous 
tricks. He had such cruel ideas and inventions after drink- 
ing. 

One day he took it into his head to make her go with him 
into the belfry, high up, very high up, to the peak of the 
palace! What I am telling you is no tale; two hundred 
thousand Provencal men and women say it. Imagine the 
terror of that unfortunate mule, when, after turning for an 
hour, blindly, round a corkscrew staircase and climbing I 
don't know how many steps, she found herself all of a sudden 
on a platform blazing with light, while a thousand feet below 
her she saw a diminutive Avignon, the booths in the market 
no bigger than nuts, the Pope's soldiers moving about their 
barrack like little red ants, and down there, bright as a silver 
thread, a microscopic little bridge on which they were 
dancing, dancing. Ah ! poor beast ! what a panic ! At the 
cry she gave, all the windows of the palace shook. 

"What's the matter? what are they doing to my mule?" 
cried the good Pope, rushing out upon his balcony. 

Tistet Vedene was already in the courtyard pretending to 
weep and tear his hair. 

"Ah ! great Holy Father, what's the matter, indeed ! Mori 
Dieu ! what will become of us ? There's your mule gone up to 
the belf ry." . 

"All alone?" 



THE POPE'S MULE 257 

"Yes, great Holy Father, all alone. Look up there, high 
up. Don't you see the tips of her ears pointing out — like 
two swallows ?" 

"Mercy !" cried the poor Pope, raising his eyes. "Why, 
she must have gone mad ! She'll kill herself ! Come down, 
come down, you luckless thing !" 

Pecaire! 7 she wanted nothing so much as to come down; 
but how? which way? The stairs? not to be thought of; 
they can be mounted, those things ; but as for going down ! 
why, they are enough to break one's legs a hundred times. 
The poor mule was in despair, and while circling round and 
round the platform with her big eyes full of vertigo she 
thought of Tistet Vedene. 

"Ah ! bandit, if I only escape — what a kick tomorrow 
morning \" 

That idea of a kick put some courage into her heart; with- 
out it she never could have held good. ... At last, they 
managed to save her ; but 't was quite a serious affair. They 
had to get her down with a derrick, ropes, and a sling. You 
can fancy what humiliation it was for a Pope's mule to see 
herself suspended at that height, her four hoofs swimming 
in the void like a cockchafer hanging to a string. And all 
Avignon looking at her ! 

The unfortunate beast could not sleep at night. She 
fancied she was still turning round and round that cursed 
platform while the town laughed below, and again she 
thought of the infamous Tistet and a fine kick of her heels 
she would let fly at him next day. Ah ! friends, what a kick ! 
the dust of it would be seen as far as Pamperigouste. 

Now, while this notable reception was being made ready 
for him in the Pope's stable what do you think Tistet Vedene 
was about? He was descending the Rhone on a papal gal- 
ley, singing as he went his way to the Court of Naples with a 

7. A Provengal expression of pity. 



258 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

troop of young nobles whom the town of Avignon sent every 
year to Queen Jeanne to practice diplomacy and fine man- 
ners. Tistet Vedene was not noble; but the Pope was bent 
on rewarding him for the care he had given to his mule, and 
especially for the activity he displayed in saving her from her 
perilous situation. 

The mule was the disappointed party on the morrow ! 

"Ah ! the bandit ! he suspected something/' she thought, 
shaking her silver bells. "No matter for that, scoundrel; 
you'll find it when you get back, that kick; I'll keep it for 

you! 

And she kept it for him. 

After Tistet's departure the Pope's mule returned to her 
tranquil way of life and her usual proceedings. No more 
Quinquet, no more Beluguet in the stable. The good old days 
of the spiced wine came back, and with them good-humor, 
long siestas, and the little gavotte step as she crossed the 
bridge of Avignon. Nevertheless, since her adventure a cer- 
tain coldness was shown to her in the town. Whisperings 
were heard as she passed, old people shook their heads, chil- 
dren laughed and pointed to the belfry. The good Pope 
himself no longer had quite the same confidence in his 
friend, and when he let himself go into a nice little nap on 
her back of a Sunday, returning from his vineyard, he 
always had this thought latent in his mind: "What if I 
should wake up there on the platform !" The mule felt this, 
and she suffered, but said nothing ; only, whenever the name 
of Tistet Vedene was uttered in her hearing, her long ears 
quivered, and she struck the iron of her shoes hard upon 
the pavement with a little snort. 

Seven years went by. Then, at the end of those seven 
years, Tistet Vedene returned from the Court of Naples. 
His time was not yet finished over there, but he had heard 
that the Pope's head mustard-bearer had died suddenly at 



THE POPE'S MULE 259 

Avignon, and as the place seemed a good one, he hurried 
back in haste to solicit it. 

When this intriguing Vedene entered the palace the Holy 
Father did not recogize him, he had grown so tall and so 
stout. It must also be said that the good Pope himself had 
grown older, and could not see much without spectacles. 

Tistet was not abashed. 

"What, great Holy Father ! you don't remember me? It is 
I, Tistet Vedene." 

"Vedene ?" 

"Why, yes, you know the one that once took the wine 
to your mule." 

"Ah ! yes, yes, — I remember. A good little fellow, that 
Tistet Vedene! And now, what do you want of me?" 

"Oh! very little, great Holy Father. I came to ask — by 
the bye, have you still got her, that mule of yours ? Is she 
well ? Ah ! good ! I came to ask you for the place of the chief 
mustard-bearer who lately died." 

"Mustard-bearer, you ! Why you are too young. How old 
are you?" 

"Twenty-two, illustrious pontiff; just five years older than 
your mule. Ah ! palm of God, what a fine beast she is ! If 
you only knew how I love her, that mule, — how I pined for 
her in Italy! Won't you let me see her?" 

"Yes, my son, you shall see her," said the worthy Pope, 
quite touched. "And as you love her so much I must have 
you live near her. Therefore, from this day I attach you to 
my person as chief mustard-bearer. My cardinals will cry 
out, but no matter! I'm used to that. Come and see me 
tomorrow, after vespers, and you shall receive the insignia 
of your rank in presence of the whole Chapter, and then I 
will show you the mule and you shall go to the vineyard with 
us, hey ! hey !" 

I need not tell you if Tistet Vedene was content when he 



260 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

left the palace, and with what impatience he awaited the 
ceremony of the morrow. And yet there was one more im- 
patient and more content than he; it was the mule. After 
Vedene's return, until vespers on the following day that 
terrible animal never ceased to stuff herself with oats, and 
practice her heels on the wall behind her. She, too, was pre- 
paring for the ceremony. 

Well, on the morrow, when vespers were said, Tistet 
Vedene made his entry into the papal court-yard. All the 
grand clergy were there; the cardinals in their red robes, 
the devil's advocate 8 in black velvet, the convent abbots in 
their small miters, the wardens of Saint-Agrico, the violet 
hoods of the Pope's household, the lower clergy also, the 
Pope's guard in full uniform, the three penitential brother- 
hoods, the hermits of Mont-Ventoux, with their sullen faces, 
and the little clerk who walks behind them with a bell, the 
flagellating friars naked to the waist, the ruddy sextons in 
judge's gowns, all, all, down to the givers of holy water, 
and the man who lights and him who puts out the candles — 
not one missing. Ah ! 't was a fine ordination ! Bells, fire- 
crackers, sunshine, music, and always those frantic tam- 
bourines leading the farandole over there, on the bridge. 

When Vedene appeared in the midst of this great assembly, 
his fine bearing and handsome face sent a murmur of admi- 
ration through the crowd. He was truly a magnificent 
Provencal; but of the blonde type, with thick hair curling at 
the tips, and a dainty little beard, that looked like slivers of 
fine metal fallen from the chisel of his father, the goldsmith. 
The rumor ran that the fingers of Queen Jeanne had some- 
times played in the curls of that golden beard ; and, in truth, 
the Sieur de Vedene had the self-glorifying air and the 
abstracted look of men that queens have loved. On this 
day, in order to do honor to his native town, he had substi- 
8. The doctor who opposes the candidate for canonization. 



THE POPE'S MULE 261 

tuted for his Neapolitan clothes a tunic edged with pink, 
a la Provengale, and in his hood there quivered a tall feather 
of the Camargue 9 ibis. 

As soon as he entered, the new official bowed with a gallant 
air, and approached the high portico where the Pope was 
waiting to give him the insignias of his rank, namely, a 
wooden spoon and a saffron coat. The mule was at the 
foot of the steps, saddled and bridled, all ready to go to the 
vineyard; as he passed beside her, Tistet Vedene smiled 
pleasantly, and stopped to give her a friendly pat or two on 
the back, glancing, as he did so, out of the corner of his eye , 
to see if the Pope noticed it. The position was just right, — 
the mule let fly her heels. 

"There, take it, villain! Seven years have I kept it for 
thee!" 

And she gave him so terrible a kick, — so terrible that even 
at Pamperigouste the smoke was seen, a whirlwind of blonde 
dust, in which flew the feather of an ibis, and that was all 
that remained of the unfortunate Tistet Vedene ! 

Mule kicks are not usually so destructive ; but this was a 
papal mule; and then, just think ! she had kept it for him for 
seven years. There is no finer example of ecclesiastical 
rancor. 

9. An island in the Rhone, near its mouth. 



THE REVEREND FATHER GAUCHER'S ELIXIR 1 

BY ALPHONSE DAUDET 

"Drink this, neighbor, and tell me what you think of it." 

And drop by drop, with the scrupulous care of a lapidary 
counting pearls, the cure of Graveson poured me out two 
fingers of a golden-green liquor, warm, shimmering, exquisite. 
It warmed my stomach like sunshine. 

"That is Father Gaucher's elixir, the pride and the health 
of our Provence/' 2 the good man informed me triumphantly. 
"It is made at the Premonstratensian 3 convent, a couple of 
leagues from your mill. . . . Isn't it worth all their 
Chartreuses ? 4 And if you only knew how amus- 

ing the story of this elixir is ! Just listen. 

Thereupon quite innocently, thinking no evil, in the pres- 
bytery dining-room so simple and quiet with its little pictures 
of the Stations of the Cross and its pretty white starched 
curtains like surplices, the abbe began to tell me a tale just 
a little skeptical and irreverent, after the manner of a story 
from Erasmus 5 or D'Assoucy. 6 

"Twenty years ago the Premonstratensians, or rather the 
White Fathers, as our Provencals call them, had fallen into 
great poverty. If you had seen their house in those days, it 
would have made your heart ache. 

"The great wall and St. Pachomius' tower were falling 
into pieces. Around the weed-grown cloisters the columns 

1. Translated by William Metcalfe. 

2. A district in southern France. 

3. An order of Augustinian monks, founded in 1120. 

4. A liqueur made by the Carthusian monks. 

5. A famous Dutch scholar, 1465-1536. 

6. A burlesque poet of the 17th century. 

262 



REV. FATHER GAUCHER'S ELIXIR 263 

were splitting, the stone saints were crumbling in their 
niches. Not a window was whole, not a door held fast. In 
the garths 7 and chapels the Rhone wind blew as it does in the 
Camargue, 8 extinguishing the candles, breaking the lead of 
the windows, and driving the holy water out of the stoups. 
But saddest of all was the convent steeple as silent as a 
deserted dove-cote, and the fathers, for want of means to 
buy themselves a bell, forced to ring to matins with clappers 
of almondwood ! 

"Poor White Fathers ! I can see them yet, at a Corpus 
Christi 9 procession, filing sadly past in their patched man- 
tles, pale, thin from their diet of pumpkins and melons, and 
behind them his lordship the abbot, who hung down his head 
as he went, ashamed at letting the sun see his crosier with 
the gilding worn off and his white woolen miter all moth- 
eaten. The ladies of the confraternity wept in their ranks 
for pity at the sight, and the big banner-carriers grinned and 
whispered to each other, as they pointed at the poor monks : 

' 'Starlings go thin when they go in a flock V 

"The fact is that the unfortunate White Fathers were 
themselves reduced to debating whether they would not be 
better to take their flight across the world and seek fresh 
pasture, each one where he could. 

"So then, one day, when this grave question was being dis- 
cussed in the chapter, a message was brought to the prior 
that Brother Gaucher asked to be heard before the council. 
You must understand that this Brother Gaucher 
was the convent cowherd ; that is to say, he spent his days in 
wandering from arch to arch of the cloisters, driving two 
scraggy cows, which sought for grass in the crevices of the 
pavement. Brought up until his twelfth year by an old half- 

7. Gardens. 

8. An island in the Rhone, near its mouth. 

9. A festival of the Roman Catholic church, Thursday after Trinity 
Sunday. 



264 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

witted woman in Les Baux, called Auntie Begon, and then 
taken in by the monks, the unfortunate cowherd had never 
been able to learn anything except to drive his beasts and to 
repeat his paternoster, and even that he said in Provencal: 
for he had a thick skull, and his wits were about as sharp as 
a leaden dagger. A fervent Christian, for all that, though 
somewhat visionary, quite comfortable in his sackcloth, and 
disciplining himself with strong conviction and such arms! 

"When they saw him enter the chapter-house, simple and 
clownish, and salute the assembly with a scrape, prior, 
canons, treasurer, and every one burst out laughing. 
That was always the effect produced everywhere that his 
honest, grizzled face appeared, with its goatee and its 
somewhat vacuous eyes; so Brother Gaucher was not put 
about. 

" 'Your Reverences/ he said in a good-natured tone, twist- 
ing at his olive-stone beads, 'it's a true saying that empty 
barrels make the most sound. What do you think ? By put- 
ting my poor brains to steep, though they're soft enough 
already, I do believe I've found the way to get us all out 
of our difficulties. 

" 'It's this way. You know Auntie Begon, the good woman 
who took care of me when I was little — God rest her soul, the 
old sinner ! She used to sing some queer songs when she had 
drink — Well, what I want to tell you, my reverend fathers, 
is that when Auntie Begon was alive she knew the herbs that 
grow in the mountains as well and better than any old hag in 
Corsica. And, by the same token, in her latter days she com- 
pounded an incomparable elixir by blending five or six sorts 
of simples, which we used to go and gather together in the 
Alpilles. That's many a year ago; but I think that with the 
aid of Saint Augustine, and the permission of our father 
abbot, I might — if I search carefully — recall the composi- 



REV. FATHER GAUCHER'S ELIXIR 265 

tion of that mysterious elixir. Then we should only have to 
put it into bottles and sell it a little dear, and the com- 
munity would be able to get rich at its ease, like our brethren 
at La Trappe and the Grande. . 

"He had not time to finish. The prior got up and fell 
on his neck. The canons took him by the hands. The treas- 
urer, even more deeply moved than any of the others, 
respectfully kissed the frayed hem of his cowl. . . . Then 
each returned to his stall to deliberate ; and in solemn assem- 
bly the chapter decided to entrust the cows to Brother 
Thrasybulus, in order that Brother Gaucher might devote 
himself entirely to the preparation of his elixir. 

"How did the good brother manage to recall Auntie 
Begon's recipe? What efforts, what vigils did it cost him? 
History does not relate. But this much is certain, at the end 
of six months the White Fathers' elixir was very popular 
already. In all the Comtat, in all the Aries district not a 
mas, not a farm-house but had at the backdoor of its spence, 
among the bottles of wine syrup and jars of olives picholines, 
a little brown stone flagon sealed with the arms of Provence, 
with a monk in ecstasy on a silver label. Thanks to the 
vogue of its elixir the house of the Premonstratensians got 
rich very rapidly. St. Pachomius' tower was rebuilt. The 
prior got a new miter, the church grand new painted win- 
dows; and in the fine tracery of the steeple a whole flight 
of bells, big and little, alighted one fine Easter morning, 
chiming and pealing in full swing. 

"As for Brother Gaucher, the poor lay brother whose 
rusticities used to amuse the chapter so, he was never men- 
tioned now in the convent. They only knew the Reverend 
Father Gaucher, a man of brains and ability, who lived quite 
isolated from the petty, multifarious occupations of the clois- 
ter, and shut himself up all day in his distillery, while 



266 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

thirty monks scoured the mountains in search of his fragrant 
herbs. . . . This distillery, to which no one, not even 
the prior, had the right of entry, was an old abandoned 
chapel at the bottom of the canons' garden. The good 
fathers' simplicity had made it into a very mysterious 
and formidable place; and any bold and inquisitive monk 
who managed to reach the rose-window above the door by 
scrambling up the climbing vines promptly tumbled down, 
terrified at his peep of Father Gaucher with his necroman- 
cer's beard, stooping over his furnaces, hydrometer in hand ; 
and all around him red stone retorts, gigantic alembics, glass 
worms, a regular weird litter that glowed as if enchanted 
in the red gleam of the windows. . . . 

"At close of day, when the last stroke of the Angelus 10 
sounded, the door of this place of mystery was opened dis- 
creetly, and his Reverence betook himself to the church for 
the evening office. You should have seen the reception that 
he got as he traversed the monastery! The brethren lined 
up as he passed. They said: 

" 'Hush ! . . He has the secret ! . . . 

"The treasurer walked behind him and spoke to him, 
bowing deferentially. . . . Amid these adulations the 
Father went his way, wiping his brow, his three-cornered 
hat with its broad brim on the back of his head like an 
aureole, looking complacently about him at the wide courts 
planted with orange-trees, the blue roofs where new vanes 
were turning, and in the dazzling white cloister, amid the 
neat flower columns, the canons all newly rigged out, walking 
two and two with contented faces. 

" 'They owe all that to me!' his Reverence said inwardly; 
and, as often as he did so, the thought made his pride rise in 
gusts. 

10. The Angelus is a Catholic devotional exercise repeated at morn- 
ing, noon, and sunset, upon the ringing of the church bell. 



REV. FATHER GAUCHER'S ELIXIR 267 

"The poor man was heavily punished for it. You'll hear 
how that happened. . . . 

"You must understand that one evenings whilst the office 
was being sung, he arrived at the church in an extraordinary 
state of agitation: red, breathless, his cowl awry, and so 
upset that in taking holy water he dipped his sleeves into it 
up to the elbows. At first they thought that it was excite- 
ment at being late; but when they saw him make profound 
reverences to the organ and the galleries instead of saluting 
the high altar, rush across the church like a whirlwind, wan- 
der about in the choir for five minutes in search of his stall, 
then, once he was seated, sway right and left, smiling 
benignly, a murmur of astonishment ran through the nave 
and aisles. They chuckled to one another behind their 
breviaries : 

' 'Whatever is the matter with our Father Gaucher ? . . . 
Whatever is the matter with our Father Gaucher?' 

"Twice the prior impatiently let his crosier fall on the 
pavement to command silence. . . . Down at the end 
of the choir the psalms still went on ; but the responses lacked 
animation. . . . 

"Suddenly, in the middle of the Ave verum, 11 lo and be- 
hold, Father Gaucher flung himself back in his stall, and 
sang out at the top of his voice : 

te 'In Paris there dwells a White Father, 
Patatin, patatan, tarabin, taraban . . .' 

"General consternation. Everyone rose. There were 

cries of: 

' 'Take him away ! . . . He's possessed !' 

"The canons crossed themselves. His Lordship flourished 

his crosier. . . . But Father Gaucher saw nothing, heard 

nothing; and two sturdy monks had to drag him out by the 

11. The first words of a part of the Catholic service, "Hail to. Thee, 
True Body," etc. 



268 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

side door of the choir, struggling like a demoniac and going 
on worse than ever with his 'patatins' and 'tarabans.' 

"Next morning, at daybreak, the unfortunate man was 
on his knees in the prior's oratory, owning his fault with a 
torrent of tears. 

' 'It was the elixir, my lord; it was the elixiir that over- 
came me,' he said, beating on his breast. 

"And seeing him so conscience-smitten, so penitent, the 
good prior himself was moved. 

" 'Come, come, Father Gaucher, set your mind at rest; it 
will all pass away like dew in the sun. . . . After all. 
the scandal has not been so great as you think. To be sure, 
there was a song that was a little. . . . hem ! hem ! . 
Yet let us hope that the novices would not pick it up. ... 
But now, let us see; tell me frankly how it all happened. 
. It was when you were trying the elixir, was it not ? 
Perhaps your hand was too heavy? . . . Yes, yes, I under- 
stand. . . . It is like brother Schwartz, the inventor of 
gunpowder : you have been the victim of your invention. But 
tell me, my good friend, is it absolutely necessary for you to 
try this terrible elixir on yourself?' 

" 'Unfortunately it is, my lord ! The gauge gives me the 
strength and the degree of alcohol, it is true ; but for the fine- 
ness, the velvetiness, I can't very well trust anything but my 
tongue ! . . . ' 

" 'Ah, to be sure ! . . . But listen for another moment 
to what I am going to say to you. . . . When you are 
compelled to taste the elixir thus, does it seem good? Do 
you derive any pleasure from it?' 

" 'Alas, yes, my lord !' said the unfortunate father, blush- 
ing to the roots of his hair. 'These last two evenings I have 
found such a bouquet in it, such an aroma ! . . . Surely it 
must be the Devil that has played me this sorry trick. , . , 



REV. FATHER GAUCHER'S ELIXIR 269 

Aiid so I have quite decided to use nothing but the gauge in 
future. If the liquor is not fine enough, if it does not pearl 
enough, so much the worse. . . . ' 

" Tor any sake don't do that/ the prior interrupted excit- 
edly. 'We must not run the risk of making our customers 
dissatisfied. . . . All you have to do, now that you are 
forewarned/ is to be on your guard. . . . Let us see, how 
much do you require to ascertain ? . . . Fifteen or twenty 
drops, eh? . . . Let's say twenty drops. . . . The Devil 
will be smart indeed if he catches you with twenty drops. 
... In any case, to prevent accidents, I'll dispense you 
from coming to church in future. You will say the evening 
office in the distillery. . . . And, meanwhile, go in peace, 
reverend father, and, above all things, count vour drops care- 
fully.' 

"Alas, his poor reverence had much need to count his 
drops ! . . . The Devil had hold of him, and never after- 
wards let him go. 

"The distillery heard some strange offices ! 

"So long as it was day, all went well. The father was 
tolerably calm : he prepared his chafing dishes and alembics, 
sorted his herbs carefully, all Provence herbs, fine, gray, 
serrated, hot with perfume and sunshine. . . . But in the 
evening, when the simples were infused and the elixir was 
cooling in great copper basins, the poor man's martyrdom 
began. 

' 'Seventeen . . . eighteen . , . nineteen . . . twenty ! 

"The drops fell from the stirring-rod into the silver-gilt 
goblet. The father swallowed the twenty at a gulp, almost 
without pleasure. What he longed for was the twenty-first. 
Oh, that twenty-first drop ! . . . Then, to escape tempta- 
tion, he went and knelt down at the farthest end of the labora- 



270 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

tory, and buried himself in his paternosters. But from the 
still-warm liquor there rose a faint steam charged with 
aromas, which came stealing about him and sent him back 
willy-nilly to his basins. . . . The liquor was a lovely 
golden green. . . . Leaning over it with open nostrils, the 
father stirred it gently with his stirring-rod, and in the little 
sparkling bubbles that the emerald wave carried round he 
seemed to see Auntie Begon's eyes laughing and twinkling as 
they looked at him. . . . 

" 'Here goes ! Another drop V 

"And with one drop and another the unfortunate at last 
had his goblet full to the brim. Then, completely vanquished, 
he sank down in a great arm-chair, and lolling at ease, his 
eyes half shut, tasted his sin sip by sip, saying softly to him- 
self with a delicious remorse : 

" 'Ah ! I'm damning myself . . . damning myself . . . / 

"The most terrible thing was that at the bottom of this 
diabolical elixir he rediscovered by some black art or other 
all Auntie Begon's naughty songs: 'There are three little 
gossips, who talk of making a banquet* . . .or: 'Master 
Andrews' little shepherdess goes off to the wood by her little 
self/ and always the famous one about the White Fathers: 
'Patatin, patatan.' 

"Imagine his confusion next day when his cell-mates said 
to him slyly: 

" 'Eh, eh, Father Gaucher, you had a bee in your bonnet 
last night, when you went to bed !' 

"Then it was tears, despair and fasting, sackcloth and 
discipline. But nothing could avail against the demon of the 
elixir, and every evening at the same hour his possession 
began anew. 

"All this time orders were pouring into the abbey in excess 
of expectation. They came from Nimes, from Aix, from 



REV. FATHER GAUCHER'S ELIXIR 271 

Avignon, from Marseilles 12 . . . Every day the convent 
became more like a factory. There were packing brothers, 
labeling brothers, others for the accounts, others for the 
carting; the service of God may have lost a few tolls of the 
bells now and again by it; but I can assure you that the 
poor folk of the district lost nothing. . . . 

"Well, then, one fine Sunday morning, whilst the treasurer 
was reading in full chapter his stock-sheet at the end of 
the year, and the good canons were listening to him with 
sparkling eyes and smiles on their lips, who should burst 
into the middle of the meeting but Father Gaucher, shouting 
out: 

' 'That's an end of it ! . . .1 can't stand it any longer ! 
. . . Give me my cows again V 

' 'But what is it, Father Gaucher?' asked the prior, who 
had his own suspicions of what it was. 

' 'What is it, my lord ? . . . I'm on a fair way of pre- 
paring myself a fine eternity of flames and pitchforks. . . . 
I drink, and drink, like a lost soul ; that's what it is ! . . . ' 

" 'But I told you to count your drops.' 

" 'Ah, so you did ! To count my drops ! But I would need 
to count by goblets now. . . . Yes, your Reverences, that's 
what I've come to. Three bottles an evening! . . . You 
know quite well that can't go on forever. . . . So, get 
whom you like to make the elixir. . . . God's fire burn me, 
if I take anything more to do with it !' 

"There was no more laughing for the chapter. 

' 'But, wretched man, you'll ruin us !' cried the treasurer, 
brandishing his ledger. 

" 'Would you rather I damned myself?' 

"Thereupon the prior stood up. 

' 'Reverend sirs/ he said, stretching out his fine white 
hand, on which the pastoral ring glistened, 'it can all be 
12. Cities in Provence, southern France. 



272 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

arranged. . . . It's at night, is it not, my dear son, that 
the demon assails you? . . . ' 

" 'Yes, Sir Prior, regularly every evening. . . . When 
I see the night coming on, I get all in a sweat, saving your 
Reverence's presence, like Capitou's ass, when he saw them 
come with the pack-saddle.' 

" 'Well, then, keep your mind easy. ... In future, 
every evening, during the office, we'll recite on your behalf 
the Prayer of Saint Augustine, to which plenary indulgence 
is attached. . . . With that, you are safe, whatever hap- 
pens. . . . It is absolution at the very moment of sin.' 
' 'O that is good, thank you, Sir Prior.' 

"And, without asking anything more, Father Gaucher 
returned to his alembics as light as a lark. 

"And in fact, from that moment, every evening, at the 
end of compline, the officiant never failed to say : 

" 'Let us pray for our poor Father Gaucher, who is sacri- 
ficing his soul in the interests of the community. Oremus, 
Domine. 13 . . .' 

"And, while the prayer ran along all those white cowls 
prostrated in the shadow of the naves, like a little breeze 
over snow, away at the other end of the convent, behind the 
lighted windows of the distillery, Father Gaucher might be 
heard chanting open-throated : 

" 'In Paris there dwells a White Father, 
Patatin, patatan, tarabin, taraban; 
In Paris there dwells a White Father 
Who sets all the little nuns dancing, 
Trip, trip, trip, trip in a garden; 
Who sets all the . . .' " 

At this point the good cure stopped short in horror. 
"Mercy on us ! If my parishioners heard me !" 

13. ''Let us pray, O Lord," part of the Catholic service. 



COPPEE 

(1842-1908) 

Francois Coppee was born in Paris, January 12, 1842. 
While a young man he worked as a clerk in the Ministry of 
War, and later was dramatic critic for La Patrie, a promi- 
nent Parisian newspaper. From 1878 to 1884 he was archiv- 
ist of the Comedie Francaise, giving up this position on his 
election to the French Academy. 

Coppee began his literary career as a poet, but in later 
years turned to the drama and the short story as modes of 
expression. He received no recognition as a poet until 1869, 
when the phenomenal success of his play, Le Passant, drew 
him from the obscurity of his government clerkship. It was 
in this play that Sarah Bernhardt met with her first success. 
Coppee continued to produce volume after volume of poetry 
as well as a number of plays ; at the same time he took active 
part in the affairs of the day, especially political movements 
such as the Dreyfus affair. 

His stories are of uneven merit, but the best of them 
promise to guarantee him an important place in French fic- 
tion. In his stories he aimed to be simple and intense, thor- 
oughly earnest, and deeply sympathetic. At times he be- 
comes somewhat morbid and over-sentimental, but, on the 
whole, there is a certain geniality about his stories, a charac- 
teristic not at all common to most of his contemporaries. 
These various traits are shown particularly in those stories 
in which he describes the trials and sufferings of the poor 
and the unfortunate. 

Like every French writer of his day Coppee was influenced 
by the War of 1870 with Germany, and a number of his 
stories touch upon some phase of the hardship and injustice 
of war when brought home to the individual. The best of 

273 



274 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

these are A Piece of Bread (printed in this volume by per- 
mission of Current Opinion, N. Y.) and The Substitute. 

A PIECE OF BREAD 

By FRANCOIS COPP^E 

The young Due de Hardimont happened to be at Aix in 
Savoy/ whose waters he hoped would benefit his famous 
mare j Perichole, who had become wind-broken since the cold 
she had caught at the last Derby/ — and was finishing his 
breakfast while glancing over the morning paper, when he 
read the news of the disastrous engagement at Reichshoffen. 3 

He emptied his glass of chartreuse/ laid his napkin upon 
the restaurant table, ordered his valet to pack his trunks, 
and two hours later took the express to Paris; arriving 
there, he hastened to the recruiting office and enlisted in a 
regiment of the line. 

In vain had he led the enervating life of a fashionable 
swell — that was the word of the time — and had knocked 
about race-course stables from the age of nineteen to twenty- 
five. In circumstances like these, he could not forget that 
Enguerrand de Hardimont died of the plague at Tunis the 
same day as Saint-Louis, 5 that Jean de Hardimont com- 
manded the Free Companies under Du Guesclin, 6 and that 
Francois-Henri de Hardimont was killed at Fontenoy 7 with 
"Red" Maison. Upon learning that France had lost a 
battle on French soil, the young duke felt the blood mount 
to his face, giving him a horrible feeling of suffocation. 

And so, early in November, 1870, Henri de Hardimont 

1. A province in southeastern France. 

2. The famous annual race at Epsom, England. 

3. A town in Alsace. A battle was fought there Aug. 6, 1870. 

4. A liqueur made by the Carthusian monks. 

5. Louis IX of France. He died Aug. 25, 1270. 

6. A French general (1320-1380). 

7. A village in Belgium, where a bloody battle was fought on May 
11, 1745. 



A PIECE OF BREAD 275 

returned to Paris with his regiment, forming part of Vinoy's 8 
corps, and his company being the advance guard before the 
redoubt of Hautes Bruyeres, a position fortified in haste, 
and which protected the cannon of Fort Bicetre. 

It was a gloomy place; a road planted with clusters of 
broom, and broken up into muddy ruts, traversing the lep- 
rous fields of the neighborhood; on the border stood an 
abandoned tavern, a tavern with arbors, where the soldiers 
had established their post. They had fallen back here a few 
days before; the grape-shot had broken down some of the 
young trees, and all of them bore upon their bark the white 
scars of bullet wounds. As for the house, its appearance 
made one shudder ; the roof had been torn by a shell, and the 
walls seemed whitewashed with blood. The torn and shattered 
arbors under their network of twigs, the rolling of an upset 
cask, the high swing whose wet rope groaned in the damp 
wind, and the inscriptions over the door, furrowed by bullets ; 
"Cabinets de societe — Absinthe — Vermouth — Vin a 60 cent, 
le litre" 9 — encircling a dead rabbit painted over two billiard 
cues tied in a cross by a ribbon, — all this recalled with cruel 
irony the popular entertainment of former days. And over 
all, a wretched winter sky, across which rolled heavy laden 
clouds, an odious sky, angry and hateful. 

At the door of the tavern stood the young duke, motion- 
less, with his gun in his shoulder belt, his cap over his eyes, 
his benumbed hands in the pockets of his red trousers, and 
shivering in his sheepskin coat. He gave himself up to his 
somber thoughts, this defeated soldier, and looked with 
sorrowful eyes toward a line of hills, lost in the fog, where 
could be seen each moment the flash and smoke of a Krupp 10 
gun, followed by a report. 

8. A French general during the siege of Paris, 1870. 

9. The sign means that the place consisted of small booths, and 
that drinks were sold at 12 cents a litre (nearly a quart). 

10. The famous German gun-maker. 



276 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

Suddenly he felt hungry. 

Stooping, he drew from his knapsack, which stood near 
him leaning against the wall, a piece of ammunition bread, 
and as he had lost his knife, he bit off a morsel and slowly 
ate it. 

But after a few mouthfuls, he had enough of it; the bread 
was hard and had a bitter taste. No fresh would be given 
until the next morning's distribution, so the commissary 
officer had willed it. This was certainly a very hard life 
sometimes. The remembrance of former breakfasts came to 
him, such as he had called "hygienic," when, the day after 
too over-heating a supper, he would seat himself by a win- 
dow on the ground floor of the Cafe-Anglais, and be served 
with a cutlet, or buttered eggs with asparagus tips, and the 
butler, knowing his tastes, would bring him a fine bottle of 
old Leovile, lying in its basket, and which he would pour 
out with the greatest care. The deuce take it ! That was a 
good time, all the same, and he would never become accus- 
tomed to this life of wretchedness. 

And, in a moment of impatience, the young man threw the 
rest of his bread into the mud. 

At the same moment a soldier of the line came from the 
tavern, stooped and picked up the bread, drew back a few 
steps, wiped it with his sleeve and began to devour it 
eagerly. 

Henri de Hardimont was already ashamed of his action, 
and now, with a feeling of pity, watched the poor devil who 
gave proof of such a good appetite. He was a tall, large 
young fellow, but badly made; with feverish eyes and a 
hospital beard, and so thin that his shoulder-blades stood 
out beneath his well-worn cape. 

"You are very hungry?" he said, approaching the 
soldier. 

"As you see," replied the other with his mouth full. 



A PIECE OF BREAD 277 

"Excuse me, then. For if I had known that you would 
like the bread, I would not have thrown it away." 

"It does not harm it/' replied the soldier, "I am not 
dainty." 

"No matter/' said the gentleman, "it was wrong to do so, 
and I reproach myself. But I do not wish you to have a 
bad opinion of me, and as I have some old cognac in my 
can, let us drink a drop together." 

The man had finished eating. The duke and he drank a 
mouthful of brandy; the acquaintance was made. 

"What is your name?" asked the soldier of the line. 

"Hardimont," replied the duke, omitting his title. "And 
yours ?" 

"Jean- Victor — I have just entered this company — I am 
just out of the ambulance — I was wounded at Chatillon — 
oh ! but it was good in the ambulance, and in the infirmary 
they gave me horse bouillon. But I had only a scratch, 
and the major signed my dismissal. So much the worse for 
me ! Now I am going to commence to be devoured by hunger 
again — for, believe me, if you will, comrade, but, such as 
you see me, I have been hungry all my life." 

The words were startling, especially to a Sybarite lx who 
had just been longing for the kitchen of the Cafe- Anglais, 
and the Due de Hardimont looked at his companion in almost 
terrified amazement. The soldier smiled sadly, showing his 
hungry, wolf-like teeth, as white as his sickly face, and, as 
if understanding that the other expected something further 
in the way of explanation or confidence: 

"Come," said he, suddenly ceasing his familiar way of 
speaking, doubtless divining that his companion belonged to 
the rich and happy; "let us walk along the road to warm our 
feet, and I will tell you things which probably you have 

11. One who lives in luxury. 



278 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

never heard of — I am called Jean- Victor, that is all, for I 
am a foundling, and my only happy remembrance is of my 
earliest childhood, at the Asylum. The sheets were white on 
our little beds in the dormitory; we played in a garden 
under large trees, and a kind Sister took care of us, quite 
young and as pale as a wax-taper — she died afterwards of 
lung trouble — I was her favorite, and would rather walk by 
her than play with the other children, because she used to 
draw me to her side and lay her warm thin hand on my fore- 
head. But when I was twelve years old, after my first commu- 
nion, there was nothing but poverty. The managers put me as 
apprentice with a chair-mender in Faubourg Saint- Jacques. 
That is not a trade, you know, it is impossible to earn one's 
living at it, and as proof of it, the greater part of the time 
the master was only able to engage the poor little blind boys 
from the Blind Asylum. It was there that I began to suffer 
with hunger. The master and mistress, two old Limousins 12 
— afterwards murdered — were terrible misers, and the bread, 
cut in tiny pieces for each meal, was kept under lock and 
key the rest of the time. You should have seen the mistress 
at supper time serving the soup, sighing at each ladleful 
she dished out. The other apprentices, two blind boys, were 
less unhappy; they were not given more than I, but they 
could not see the reproachful look the wicked woman used 
to give me as she handed me my plate. And then, unfortu- 
nately, I was always so terribly hungry. Was it my fault, 
do you think ? I served there for three years, in a continual 
fit of hunger. Three years ! And one can learn the work 
in one month. But the managers could not know everything, 
and had no suspicion that the children were abused. Ah ! 
you were astonished just now when you saw me take the 
bread out of the mud ? I am used to that, for I have picked 
up enough of it; and crusts from the dust, and when they 
12. People from Limoges, southern Prance. 



A PIECE OF BREAD 279 

were too hard and dry, I would soak them all night in my 
basin. I had windfalls sometimes, such as pieces of bread 
nibbled at the ends, which the children would take out of 
their baskets and throw on the sidewalks as they came from 
school. I used to try to prowi around there when I went on 
errands. At last my time was ended at this trade by which 
no man can support himself. Well, I did many other things, 
for I was willing enough to work. I served the masons; I 
have been shop-boy, floor-polisher, I don't know what all! 
But, pshaw ; today, work is lacking, another time I lose my 
place. Briefly, I never have had enough to eat. Heavens ! 
how often have I been crazy with hunger as I have passed 
the bakeries ! Fortunately for me, at these times I have* 
always remembered the good Sister at the Asylum, who so 
often told me to be honest, and I seemed to feel her warm 
little hand upon my forehead. At last, when I was eighteen 
I enlisted; you know as well as I do, that the trooper has 
only just enough. Now, — I could almost laugh — here 
is the siege and famine ! You see, I did not lie, when 
I told you just now that I have always, always been 
hungry !" 

The young duke had a kind heart, and was profoundly 
moved by this terrible story, told him by a man like himself, 
by a soldier whose uniform made him his equal. It was even 
fortunate for the phlegm of this dandy, that the night wind 
dried the tears which dimmed his eyes. 

"Jean- Victor/' said he, ceasing in his turn, by a delicate 
tact, to speak familiarly to the foundling, "if we survive 
this dreadful war, we will meet again, and I hope that I may 
be useful to you. But, in the meantime, as there is no bakery 
but the commissary, and as my ration of bread is twice too 
large for my delicate appetite, — it is understood, is it not ? — 
we will share it like good comrades/' 

It was strong and hearty, the hand-clasp which followed : 



280 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

then, harassed and worn by their frequent watches and 
alarms, as night fell, they returned to the tavern, where 
twelve soldiers were sleeping on the straw; and, throwing 
themselves down side by side, they were soon sleeping 
soundly. 

Toward midnight Jean- Victor awoke, being hungry prob- 
ably. The wind had scattered the clouds, and a ray of 
moonlight made its way into the room through a hole in the 
roof, lighting up the handsome blonde head of the young 
duke, who was sleeping like an Endymion. 

Still touched by the kindness of his comrade, Jean- Victor 
was gazing at him with admiration, when the sergeant of 
the platoon opened the door and called the five men who 
were to relieve the sentinels of the outposts. The duke was 
of the number, but he did not waken when his name was 
called. 

"Hardimont, stand up !" repeated the non-commissioned 
officer. 

"If you are willing, sergeant/' said Jean- Victor, rising, "I 
will take his duty, he is sleeping so soundly — and he is my 
comrade/' 

"As you please." 

The five men left, and the snoring recommenced. 

But half an hour later the noise of near and rapid firing 
burst upon the night. In an instant every man was on his 
feet, and each, with his hand on the chamber of his gun, 
stepped cautiously out, looking earnestly along the road, 
lying white in the moonlight. 

"What time is it?" asked the duke. "I was to go on duty 
tonight." 

"Jean- Victor went in your place." 

At that moment a soldier was seen running toward them 
along the road. 

"What is it?" they cried as he stopped, out of breath. 



A PIECE OF BREAD 281 

"The Prussians have attacked us, let us fall back to the 
redoubt." 

"And your comrades ?" 

"They are coming — all but poor Jean- Victor." 

"Where is he?" cried the duke. 

"Shot through the head with a bullet — died without a 
word ! — ough !" 

One night last winter, the Due de Hardimont left his 
club about two o'clock in the morning, with his neighbor, 
Count de Saulnes; the duke had lost some hundred louis, 13 
and had a slight headache. 

"If you are willing, Andre," he said to his companion, 
"we will go home on foot — I need the air." 

"Just as you please, I am willing, although the walking 
may be bad." 

They dismissed their coupes, turned up the collars of 
their overcoats, and set off towards the Madeleine. 14 Sud- 
denly an object rolled before the duke which he had struck 
with the toe of his boot; it was a large piece of bread 
spattered with mud. 

Then, to his amazement, Monsieur de Saulnes saw the 
Due de Hardimont pick up the piece of bread, wipe it care- 
fully with his handkerchief embroidered with his armorial 
bearings, and place it on a bench, in full view under the 
gas-light. 

"What did you do that for?" asked the count, laughing 
heartily; "are you crazy?" 

"It is in memory of a poor fellow who died for me," 
replied the duke in a voice which trembled slightly. "Oo 
not laugh, my friend, it offends me." 

13. A gold coin worth $4.00. 

14. A famous church of Paris. 



FRANCE 

(1844- ) 

Jacques Anatole Thibault, who writes under the name 
of Anatole France, was born in 1844, in Paris. He was 
a boy of lively imagination, always trying to put into prac- 
tice the ideas and ideals of the stories which he read or had 
read to him. At the age of seven The Lives of the Saints 
was read to him by his mother, and this profoundly im- 
pressed him. Before, his ambition had been to die a heroic 
death on the field of battle like the knights of old, but as 
that seemed impracticable, in his youthful fancy he decided 
to become a saint, a career which had "fewer requirements 
and was of greater renown than that of a soldier." School 
interfered with his final resolve to become a hermit in the 
desert wastes of Le Jardin des Plantes, one of the most 
beautiful public gardens of Paris. 

His father was a bookseller on the Quai Voltaire, and in 
his shop France early acquired the habit of promiscuous 
reading. He was fond of roaming around the older and 
more picturesque parts of Paris, observing with interest the 
old shops full of curios; then, too, what interesting persons 
one could always find on the streets, such as the milkmen, 
the soldiers in their resplendent uniforms, and above all, the 
women who sold flowers on the quay ! 

As a student in college Anatole France became fond of the 
Latin and Greek classics, and this, together with an innate 
love for the curious, has led him into all sorts of literary 
and historical by-ways, giving his work an atmosphere of 
erudition which constitutes one of its most fascinating 
charms. In this respect he resembles Charles Lamb, and, like 
Lamb, Anatole France constantly puts his own personality 
into everything he writes. 

His first published work, a critical essay on De Vigny, was 

282 



FRANCE 283 

followed by several volumes of poetry. As a novelist his first 
real success was The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard (1881). 
This is an intensely interesting story and forms an excellent 
beginning for the study and appreciation of the novels of 
Anatole France. It has the clear, forcible, and finished style 
characteristic of all his writing, while the chief character 
in the story, the old scholar who still likes to keep in touch 
with the world at large, is a type of character that the 
author likes to draw. Here, as in all his stories, the in- 
terest is concentrated on the characters rather than on the 
plot, and the development of the story is brought about 
largely through conversation instead of direct narration. 

Anatole France has always been very active, both as a 
literary man and as a publicist. He has published many 
volumes of stories, both long and short. The Juggler of 
Notre Dame, printed in this book, is one of his best sketches. 
The emphasis upon character should be noted. As a pub- 
licist he has made many speeches, most of which have 
appeared in book form. He had definite leanings towards 
Socialism, and the Dreyfus case finally swung him into the 
ranks of the Socialists. He never has been of that radical 
type which believes that the present time is hopelessly out 
of joint, but he seems to believe that there will be a great 
leveling of classes, and that this will be a universal blessing. 

In spite of advanced years, Anatole France has been 
prominent in the Great War of 1914, asking that he be 
allowed to wear a uniform, and giving his pen to the service 
of his country. A volume of his war sketches, On the Glori- 
ous Path, has already appeared (1917). 



THE JUGGLER OF NOTRE DAME 1 

By ANATOLE FRANCE 

\ 

In the days of King Louis there was a poor juggler in 
France, a native of Compiegne, Barnaby by name, who 
went about from town to town performing feats of skill and 
strength. 

On fair days he would unfold an old worn-out carpet in 
the public square, and when by means of a jovial address, 
which he had learned of a very ancient juggler, and which he 
never varied in the least, he had drawn together the children 
and loafers, he assumed extraordinary attitudes, and bal- 
anced a tin plate on the tip of his nose. At first the crowd 
would feign indifference. 

But when, supporting himself on his hands face down- 
wards, he threw into the air six copper balls, which glit- 
tered in the sunshine, and caught them again with his feet; 
or when throwing himself backwards until his heels and 
the nape of his neck met, giving his body the form of a 
perfect wheel, he would juggle in this posture with a dozen 
knives, a murmur of admiration would escape the spectators, 
and pieces of money rain down upon the carpet. 

Nevertheless, like the majority of those who live by their 
wits, Barnaby had a great struggle to make a living. 

Earning his bread in the sweat of his brow, he bore rather 
more than his share of the penalties consequent upon the 
misdoings of our father Adam. 

Again, he was unable to work as constantly as he would 
have been willing to do. The warmth of the sun and the 
broad daylight were as necessary to enable him to display 

1. Translated by Frederic Chapman. 

284 



THE JUGGLER OF NOTRE DAME 285 

his brilliant parts as to the trees if flower and fruit should 
be expected of them. In winter time he was nothing more 
than a tree stripped of its leaves, and as it were dead. The 
frozen ground was hard to the juggler, and, like the grass- 
hopper of which Marie de France 2 tells us, the inclement 
season caused him to suffer both cold and hunger. But as 
he was simple-natured he bore his ills patiently. 

He had never meditated on the origin of wealth, nor 
upon the inequality of human conditions. He believed 
firmly that if this life should prove hard, the life to come 
could not fail to redress the balance, and this hope upheld 
him. He did not resemble those thievish and miscreant 
Merry Andrews 3 who sell their souls to the devil. He never 
blasphemed God's name; he lived uprightly, and although 
he had no wife of his own, he did not covet his neighbor's, 
since woman is ever the enemy of the strong man, as it 
appears by the history of Samson recorded in the Scriptures. 

In truth, his was not a nature much disposed to carnal 
delights, and it was a greater deprivation to him to forsake 
the tankard than the Hebe 4 who bore it. For whilst not 
wanting in sobriety, he was fond of a drink when the weather 
waxed hot. He was a worthy man who feared God, and was 
very devoted to the Blessed Virgin. 

Never did he fail on entering a church to fall upon his 
knees before the image of the Mother of God, and offer up 
this prayer to her: 

"Blessed Lady, keep watch over my life until it shall 
please God that I die, and when I am dead, ensure to me the 
possession of the joys of paradise." 

2. A writer of lays and metrical romances in the Middle Ages. 

3. The Merry Andrews were clowns or buffoons, wandering from 
place to place in small companies. In the Middle Ages all sorts of 
actors were considered outcasts. 

4. A Greek goddess of youth, cup-bearer to the gods before th.3 
coming of Ganymede. 



286 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

Now on a certain evening after a dreary wet day as Bar- 
naby pursued his road, sad and bent, carrying under his arm 
his balls and knives wrapped up in his old carpet, on the 
watch for some barn where, though he might not sup, he 
might sleep, he perceived on the road, going in the same 
direction as himself, a monk, whom he saluted courteously. 
And as they walked at the same rate they fell into conversa- 
tion with one another. 

"Fellow traveler/' said the monk, "how comes it about that 
you are clothed all in green? Is it perhaps in order to take 
the part of a j ester in some mystery play ?" 

"Not at all, good father," replied Barnaby. "Such as you 
see me, I am called Barnaby, and for my calling I am a 
juggler. There would be no pleasanter calling in the world 
if it would always provide one with daily bread." 

"Friend Barnaby," returned the monk, "be careful what 
you say. There is no calling more pleasant than the mon- 
astic life. Those who lead it are occupied with the praises 
of God, the Blessed Virgin, and the saints ; and, indeed, the 
religious life is one ceaseless hymn to the Lord." 

Barnaby replied: 

"Good father, I own that I spoke like an ignorant man. 
Your calling cannot be in any respect compared to mine, 
and although there may be some merit in dancing with a 
penny balanced on a stick on the tip of one's nose, it is not 
a merit which comes within hail of your own. Gladly would 
I, like you, good father, sing my office day by day, and 
especially the office of the most Holy Virgin, to whom I 
have vowed a singular devotion. In order to embrace the 
monastic life I would willingly abandon the art by which 
from Soissons to Beauvais I am well known in upwards of 
six hundred towns and villages." 

The monk was touched by the juggler's simplicity, and as 



THE JUGGLER OF NOTRE DAME 287 

he was not lacking in discernment, he at once recognized in 
Barnaby one of those men of whom it is said in the Scrip- 
tures: Peace on earth to men of good will. And for this 
reason he replied: 

"Friend Barnaby, come with me, and I will have you 
admitted into the monastery of which I am Prior. He who 
guided St. Mary of Egypt in the desert set me upon your 
path to lead you into the way of salvation." 

It was in this manner, then, that Barnaby became a 
monk. In the monastery into which he was received the 
religious vied with one another in the worship of the Blessed 
Virgin, and in her honor each employed all the knowledge 
and all the skill which God had given him. 

The Prior on his part wrote books dealing according to 
the rules of scholarship with the virtues of the Mother 
of God. 

Brother Maurice, with a deft hand copied out these 
treatises upon sheets of vellum. 

Brother Alexander adorned the leaves with delicate minia- 
ture paintings. Here were displayed the Queen of Heaven 
seated upon Solomon's throne, and while four lions were 
on guard at her feet, around the nimbus which encircled 
her head hovered seven doves, which are the seven gifts 
of the Holy Spirit, the gifts, namely, of Fear, Piety, 
Knowledge, Strength, Counsel, Understanding, and Wis- 
dom. For her companions she had six virgins with hair of 
gold, namely, Humility, Prudence, Seclusion, Submission. 
Virginity, and Obedience. 

At her feet were two little naked figures, perfectly white, 
in an attitude of supplication. These were souls imploring 
her all-powerful intercession for their soul's health, and we 
may be sure not imploring in vain. 

Upon another page facing this, Brother Alexander repre- 
sented Eve, so that the Fall and the Redemption could be 



288 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

perceived at one and the same time — Eve the Wife abased, 
and Mary the Virgin exalted. 

Furthermore, to the marvel of the beholder, this book 
contained presentments of the Well of Living Waters, the 
Fountain, the Lily, the Moon, the Sun, and the Garden 
Enclosed of which the Song of Songs 5 tells us, the Gate of 
Heaven and the City of God, and all these things were 
symbols of the Blessed Virgin. 

Brother Marbode was likewise one of the most loving 
children of Mary. 

He spent all his days carving images in stone, so that 
his beard, his eyebrows, and his hair were white with dust, 
and his eyes continually swollen and weeping; but his 
strength and cheerfulness were not diminished, although 
he was now well gone in years, and it was clear that the 
Queen of Paradise still cherished her servant in his old age. 
Marbode represented her seated upon a throne, her brow 
encircled with an orb-shaped nimbus set with pearls. And 
he took care that the folds of her dress should cover the 
feet of her, concerning whom the prophet declared: My 
beloved is as a garden enclosed. 

Sometimes, too, he depicted her in the semblance of a 
child full of grace, appearing to say, "Thou art my God, 
even from the day of my birth/' 

In the priory, moreover, were poets who composed hymns 
in Latin, both in prose and verse, in honor of the Blessed 
Virgin Mary, and amongst the company was even a brother 
from Picardy who sang the miracles of Our Lady in rhymed 
verse and in the vulgar 6 tongue. 

5. One of the books of the Old Testament, sometimes called the 
Song of Solomon. The reference to the Garden Enclosed will be found 
in iv :12 of that Book. 

6. The vulgar tongue of any land is that spoken by the common 
people. Here, of course, it was French, perhaps even a dialect. 



THE JUGGLER OF NOTRE DAME 289 

Being a witness of this emulation in praise and the glo- 
rious harvest of their labors, Barnaby mourned his own 
ignorance and simplicity. 

"Alas !" he sighed, as he took his solitary walk in the 
shelterless garden of the monastery, "wretched wight that 
I am, to be unable, like my brothers, worthily to praise the 
Holy Mother of God, to whom I have vowed my whole 
heart's affection. Alas ! alas ! I am but a rough man and 
unskilled in the arts, and I can render you in service, blessed 
Lady, neither edifying sermons, nor treatises set out in 
order according to rule, nor ingenious paintings, nor statues 
truthfully sculptured, nor verses whose march is measured 
to the beat of feet. No gift have I, alas !" 

After this fashion he groaned and gave himself up to 
sorrow. But one evening, when the monks were spending 
their hour of liberty in conversation, he heard one of them 
tell the tale of a religious man who could repeat nothing 
other than the Ave Maria. This poor man was despised for 
his ignorance; but after his death there issued forth from 
his mouth five roses in honor of the five letters of the name 
Mary [Marie], and thus his sanctity was made manifest. 

Whilst he listened to this narrative Barnaby marveled 
yet once again at the loving kindness of the Virgin ; but the 
lesson of that blessed death did not avail to console him, 
for his heart overflowed with zeal, and he longed to advance 
the glory of his Lady, who is in heaven. 

How to compass this he sought but could find no way, 
and day by day he became the more cast down, when one 
morning he awakened filled with joy, hastened to the chapel, 
and remained there alone for more than an hour. After 
dinner he returned to the chapel once more. 

And, starting from that moment, he repaired daily to the 
chapel at such hours as it was deserted, and spent within 
it a good part of the time which the other monks devoted to 



290 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

the liberal and mechanic arts. His sadness vanished, nor 
did he any longer groan. 

A demeanor so strange awakened the curiosity of the 
monks. 

These began to ask one another for what purpose Brother 
Barnaby could be indulging so persistently in retreat. 

The prior, whose duty it is to let nothing escape him in i 
the behavior of his children in religion, resolved to keep 
a watch over Barnaby during his withdrawals to the chapel. 
One day, then, when he was shut up there after his custom, 
the prior, accompanied by two of the older monks, went to 
discover through the chinks in the door what was going on 
within the chapel. 

They saw Barnaby before the altar of the Blessed Virgin, 
head downwards, with his feet in the air, and he was jug- 
gling with six balls of copper and a dozen knives. In honor 
of the Holy Mother of God he was performing those feats 
which aforetime had won him most renown. Not recogniz- 
ing that the simple fellow was thus placing at the service 
of the Blessed Virgin his knowledge and skill, the two old 
monks exclaimed against the sacrilege. 

The prior was aware how stainless was Barnaby's soul, 
but he concluded that he had been seized with madness. 
They were all three preparing to lead him swiftly from the 
chapel, when they saw the Blessed Virgin descend the steps 
of the altar and advance to wipe away with a fold of her 
azure robe the sweat which was dropping from her juggler's 
forehead. 

Then the prior, falling upon his face upon the pavement, 
uttered these words : 

"Blessed are the simple-hearted, for they shall see God." 

"Amen!" responded the old brethren, and kissed the 
ground. 



BAZIN 

(1853- ) 

Rene Bazin was born in 1853 near the city of Angers, in 
eastern France. He is still living (1918). He was sent to 
Paris to study law and after completing his course he re- 
turned to Angers, where he became a professor of law in 
the University of that city. Although Bazin spends several 
months every winter in Paris, the lure of the boulevards 
has never been strong enough to blunt his sensibilities for the 
delights of the country. He is a genuine enthusiast about 
nature, and, as he says himself, he loves to watch for the 
first signs of spring in the swelling buds and to listen for 
the first songs of the returning birds. He is entirely at home 
among the peasants and the laborers of his part of the coun- 
try and finds the themes of his stories among them. 

Bazin appeals to the English reader because of his protest 
against certain modes in French fiction, especially its hard 
naturalism, found objectionable by many who live elsewhere 
than on the continent. He does not believe in the realistic 
methods that were in vogue in the eighties, when he began to 
publish, and is particularly opposed to that type of story 
about country life which is written solely for the amusement 
of Parisians. In his long stories the dominant note is 
usually something pertaining to the life and problems of 
the laboring classes, and love as a motive is usually second- 
ary. Like Anatole France, he believes that in the not dis- 
tant future there will be a general leveling of classes, and 
that it is no more than fitting that the higher class know and 
understand the life and ideals of the lower. 

Most of Bazin's stories are either long novels or what, for 
want of a better term, are called novelettes. He has also 
written books of travel in very pleasing vein, but his strength 

291 



292 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

lies in his fiction. Though he has not done much in the short 
story, The Birds in the Letter-Box, in this volume by the 
kind permission of The Frank A. Munsey Co., N. Y., is 
an excellent story. His most recent work is a collection of 
short sketches and stories dealing with the Great War, none 
of them, however, of special merit. Bazin's style and mate- 
rial are very agreeable, and he is an author who deserves 
to be better known by English readers. 



THE BIRDS IN THE LETTER-BOX 

By RENE BAZIN 

Nothing can describe the peace that surrounded the 
country parsonage. The parish was small, moderately 
honest, prosperous, and was used to the old priest, who 
had ruled it for thirty years. The town ended at the parson- 
age, and there began meadows which sloped down to the 
river and were filled in summer with the perfume of flowers 
and all the music of the earth. Behind the great house a 
kitchen-garden encroached on the meadow. The first ray of 
the sun was for it, and so was the last. Here the cherries 
ripened in May, and the currants often earlier, and a week 
before Assumption, 1 usually, you could not pass within a 
hundred feet without breathing among the hedges the heavy 
odor of the melons. 

But you must not think that the abbe of St. Philemon 
was a gourmand. He had reached the age when appetite 
is only a memory. His shoulders were bent, his face was 
wrinkled, he had two little gray eyes, one of which could 
not see any longer, and he was so deaf in one ear that if 
you happened to be on that side you just had to get round 
on the other. 

Mercy, no ! he did not eat all the fruits in his orchard. 

1. Auguso 15. 



BIRDS IN THE LETTER BOX 293 

The boys got their share— and a big share — but the biggest 
share, by all odds, was eaten by the birds — the blackbirds, 
who lived there comfortably all the year, and sang in return 
the best they could ; the orioles, pretty birds of passage, who 
helped them in summer, and the sparrows, and the warblers 
of every variety; and the tomtits, swarms of them, with 
feathers as thick as your finger, and they hung on the 
branches and pecked at a grape or scratched a pear — veri- 
table little beasts of prey, whose only "thank you'' was a 
shrill cry like a saw. 

Even to them, old age had made the abbe of St. Philemon 
indulgent. "The beasts cannot correct their faults," he used 
to say; "if I got angry at them for not changing, I'd have 
to get angry with a good many of my parishioners !" 

And he contented himself with clapping his hands together 
loud when he went into his orchard, so he should not see too 
much stealing. 

Then there was a spreading of wings, as if all the silly 
flowers cut off by a great wind were flying away ; gray, and 
white, and yellow, and mottled, a short flight, a rustling of 
leaves, and then quiet for five minutes. But what minutes ! 
Fancy, if you can, that there was not one factory in the 
village, not a weaver or a blacksmith, and that the noise 
of men with their horses and cattle, spreading over the wide, 
distant plains, melted into the whispering of the breeze and 
was lost. Mills were unknown, the roads were little fre- 
quented, the railroads were very far away. Indeed, if the 
ravagers of his garden had repented for long the abbe would 
have fallen asleep of the silence over his breviary. 

Fortunately, their return was prompt; a sparrow led the 
way, a jay followed, and then the whole swarm was back 
at work. And the abbe could walk up and down, close his 
book or open it, and murmur: "They'll not leave me a berry 
this year!" 



294 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

It made no difference; not a bird left his prey, any more 
than if the good abbe had been a cone-shaped pear-tree, with 
thick leaves, balancing himself on the gravel of the walk. 

The birds know that those who complain take no action. 
Every year they built their nests around the parsonage of 
St. Philemon in greater numbers than anywhere else. The 
best places were quickly taken, the hollows in the trees, 
the holes in the walls, the forks of the apples-trees and the 
elms, and you could see a brown beak, like the point of a 
sword, sticking out of a whisp of straw between all the 
rafters of the roof. One year, when all the places were 
taken, I suppose, a tomtit, in her embarrassment, spied the 
slit of the letter-box protected by its little roof, at the right 
of the parsonage gate. She slipped in, was satisfied with the 
result of her explorations, and brought the materials to 
build a nest. There was nothing she neglected that would 
make it warm, neither the feathers, nor the horsehair, nor 
the wool, nor even the scales of lichens that cover old wood. 

One morning the housekeeper came in, perfectly furious, 
carrying a paper. She had found it under the laurel bush, 
at the foot of the garden. 

"Look, sir, a paper, and dirty, too ! They are up to fine 
doings V 

"Who, Philomene?" 

"Your miserable birds; all the birds that you let stay 
here! Pretty soon theyll be building their nests in your 
soup-tureens !" 

"I haven't but one/' 

"Haven't they got the idea of laying their eggs in your 
letter-box ! I opened it because the postman rang and that 
doesn't happen every day. It was full of straw and horse- 
hair and spiders' webs, with enough feathers to make a quilt, 
and, in the midst of all that, a beast that I didn't see hissed 
at me like a viper V 



BIRDS IN THE LETTER BOX 295 

The abbe of St. Philemon began to laugh like a grand- 
father when he hears of a baby's pranks. 

"That must be a tomtit/' said he; "they are the only 
birds clever enough to think of it. Be careful not to touch 
it, Philomene." 

"No fear of that; it is not nice enough !" 

The abbe went hastily through the garden, the house, the 
court planted with asparagus, till he came to the wall which 
separated the parsonage from the public road, and there he 
carefully opened the letter-box, in which there would have 
been room enough for all the mail received in a year by all 
the inhabitants of the village. 

Sure enough, he was not mistaken. The shape of the nest, 
like a pine-cone, its color and texture, and the lining, which 
showed through, made him smile. He heard the hiss of the 
brooding bird inside, and replied : 

"Rest easy, little one; I know you. Twenty-one days to 
hatch your eggs and three weeks to raise your family; that 
is what you want? You shall have it. I'll take away the 
key." 

He did take away the key, and when he had finished the 
morning's duties — visits to his parishioners who were ill or 
in trouble; instructions to a boy who was to pick him out 
some fruit at the village; a climb up the steeple because a 
storm had loosened some stones — he remembered the tomtit 
and began to be afraid she would be troubled by the arrival 
of a letter while she was hatching her eggs. 

The fear was almost groundless, because the people of 
St. Philemon did not receive any more letters than they sent. 
The postman had little to do on his rounds but to eat soup 
at one house, to have a drink at another, and, once in a long 
while, to leave a letter from some conscript, or a bill for 
taxes at some distant farm. Nevertheless, since St. Robert's 
Day was near, which, as you know, comes on the 29th of 



296 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

April, the abbe thought it wise to write to the only three 
friends worthy of that name, whom death had left him, a 
layman and two priests: "My friend, do not congratulate 
me on my saint's day this year, if you please. It would 
inconvenience me to receive a letter at this time. Later I 
shall explain, and you will appreciate my reasons/' 

They thought that his eye was worse, and did not write. 

The abbe of St. Philemon was delighted. For three weeks 
he never entered his gate one time without thinking of the 
eggs, speckled with pink, that were lying in the letter-box, 
and when the twenty-first day came round he bent down and 
listened with his ear close to the slit of the box. Then he 
stood up, beaming: 

"I hear them chirp, Philomene; I hear them chirp. They 
owe their lives to me, sure enough, and they'll not be the 
ones to regret it any more than I." 

He had in his bosom the heart of a child that had never 
grown old. 

Now, at the same time, in the green room of the palace, at 
the chief town of the department, the bishop was deliber- 
ating over the appointments to be made with his regular 
councilors, his two grand vicars, the dean of the chapter, 
the secretary-general of the palace, and the director of the 
great academy. After he had appointed several vicars and 
priests, he made this suggestion : 

"Gentlemen of the council, I have in mind a candidate 

suitable in all respects for the parish of X ; but I think 

it would be well, at least, to offer that charge and that honor 
to one of our oldest priests, the abbe of St. Philemon. He 
will undoubtedly refuse it, and his modesty, no less than his 
age, will be the cause; but we shall have shown, as far as 
we could, our appreciation of his virtues/' 

The five councilors approved unanimously, and that very 
evening a letter was sent from the palace, signed by the 



BIRDS IN THE LETTER BOX 297 

bishop, and which contained in a postscript: "Answer at 
once, my dear abbe; or, better, come to see me, because I 
must submit my appointments to the government within three 
days.*' 

The letter arrived at St. Philemon the very day the tom- 
tits were hatched. The postman had difficulty in slipping it 
into the slit of the box, but it disappeared inside and lay, 
touching the base of the nest, like a white pavement at the 
bottom of the dark chamber. 

The time came when the tiny points on the wings of the 
little tomtits began to be covered with down. There were 
fourteen of them, and they twittered and staggered on their 
little feet, with their beaks open up to their eyes, never 
ceasing, from morning till night, to wait for food, eat it, 
digest it, and demand more. That was the first period, when 
the baby birds hadn't any sense. But in birds it doesn't 
last long. Very soon they quarreled in the nest, which began 
to break with the fluttering of their wings, then they tumbled 
out of it and walked along the side of the box, peeped 
through the slit at the big world outside, and at last they 
ventured out. 

The abbe of St. Philemon, with a neighboring priest, 
attended this pleasant garden party. When the little ones 
appeared beneath the roof of the box — two, three — together, 
and took their flight, came back, started again, like bees at 
the door of a hive, he said : 

"Behold, a babyhood ended and a good work accom- 
plished. They are hardy and strong, every one." 

The next day, during his hour of leisure after dinner, the 
abbe came to the box with the key in his hand. "Tap, tap," 
he went. There was no answer. "I thought so," said he. 
Then he opened the box, and, mingled with the debris of the 
nest, the letter fell into his hands. 

"Good Heavens !" said he, recognizing the writing. "A 



298 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

letter from the bishop ; and in what a state ! How long has 
it been here?" 

His cheek grew pale as he read. 

"Philomene, harness Robin quickly." 

She came to see what was the matter before obeying. 

"What have you there, sir?" 

"The bishop has been waiting for me three weeks !" 

"You've missed your chance/' said the old woman. 

The abbe was away until the next evening. When he 
came back he had a peaceful air, but sometimes peace is not 
attained without effort, and we have to struggle to keep it. 
When he had helped to unharness Robin and had given him 
some hay, had changed his cassock and unpacked his box, 
from which he took a dozen little packages of things bought 
on his visit to the city, it was the very time that the birds 
assembled in the branches to tell each other about the day. 
There had been a shower and the drops still fell from the 
leaves as they were shaken by these bohemian couples look- 
ing for a good place to spend the night. 

Recognizing their friend and master as he walked up and 
down the gravel path, they came down, fluttered about him, 
making an unusually loud noise, and the tomtits, the four- 
teen of the nest, whose feathers were still not quite grown, 
essayed their first spirals about the pear-trees and their first 
cries in the open air. 

The abbe of St. Philemon watched them with a fatherly 
eye, but his tenderness was sad, as we look at things that 
have cost us dear. 

"Well, my little ones, without me you would not be here, 
and without you I would be dead. I do not regret it at all, 
but don't insist. Your thanks are too noisy." 

He clapped his hands impatiently. 

He had never been ambitious, that is very sure, and, even 
at that moment, he told the truth. Nevertheless, the next 



BIRDS IN THE LETTER BOX 299 

day, after a night spent in talking to Philomene, he said to 
her: 

"Next year, Philomene, if the tomtit comes back, let me 
know. It is decidedly inconvenient/ ' 

But the tomtit never came again — and neither did the 
letter from the bishop ! 



CLARETIE 

(1840- ) 

Arsene Arnaud, who writes under the pen name Jules 
Claretie, was born in 1840 at Limoges, in southern France. 
He was educated in Paris. He began his literary career as 
a journalist, acting as war correspondent in the Franco- 
Prussian war. Claretie has had a long and varied career 
both as a writer and as editor of Le Temps. He also has 
written plays and served as dramatic critic for the foremost 
Parisian journals; his ability in this direction secured him 
the appointment as director of the Comedie Francaise in 
1885, a post which he held creditably for many years. 

Claretie has written many novels and tales. Among his 
novels are: L'Assassin, 1866; Madeleine Bertin, 1868; Le 
Train 17, 1877; Monsieur le Ministre, 1882; and L'Accusa- 
teur. He has also written extensively on historical subjects: 
Cinq ans Apres, 1877; Les Prussiens chez eux, 1872; and 
La Vie a Paris, 1896. In France and among French readers 
in other countries Claretie enjoys a generous popularity; 
unfortunately, however, few of his works have been trans- 
lated into English. Practically all he wrote is of the kind 
that is read, enjoyed, and then forgotten, much like the 
ordinary so-called "popular novel" of our own country. His 
creative talent has suffered through over-production, for 
Claretie has always remained a professional journalist. 

The story of Boum-Boum, in this book, shows him a mas- 
ter in a difficult field, that of writing about children without 
being either sentimental or silly. The directness of his style 
is due to his long journalistic career. 



300 



BOUM-BOUM x 

By JULES CLARETIE 

The child was lying stretched out in his little white bed, 
and his eyes, grown large through fever, looked straight 
before him, always with the strange fixity of the sick, who 
already perceive what the living do not see. 

The mother at the foot of the bed, torn by suffering and 
wringing her hands to keep herself from crying, anxiously 
followed the progress of the disease on the poor, emaciated 
face of the little being. The father, an honest workman, 
kept back the tears which burned his eyelids. 

The day broke clear and mild, a beautiful morning in 
June, and lighted up the narrow room in the street of the 
Abessess where little Francois, the child of Jacques and 
Madeleine Legrand, lay dying. He was seven years old 
and was very fair, very rosy, and so lively. Not three 
weeks ago he was gay as a sparrow; but a fever had seized 
him and they had brought him home one evening from the 
public school with his head heavy and his hands very hot. 
From that time he had been here in this bed, and some- 
times, in his delirium, when he looked at his little well- 
blackened shoes, which his mother had carefully placed in 
a corner on a board, he said : 

"You can throw them away now, little Francois* shoes ! 
Little Francois will not put them on any more ! Little 
Francois will not go to school any more — never, never !" 

Then the father cried out and said: "Wilt thou be still V 9 

And the mother, very pale, buried her blond head in his 

pillow so that little Francois could not hear her weep. 

1. Translated by Mary Symonds. Reprinted by the kind permission 
of Current Opinion, New York. 

301 



302 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

This night the child had not been delirious; but for the 
two days past the doctor had been uneasy over an odd sort 
of prostration which resembled abandon, it was as if at seven 
years the sick one already felt the weariness of life. He 
was tired, silent, sad, and tossed his little head about on the 
bolster. He had no longer a smile on his poor, thin lips, and 
with haggard eyes he sought, seeing they knew not what, 
something there beyond, very far off — 

In Heaven ! Perhaps ! thought Madeleine, trembling. 

When they wished him to take some medicine, some sirup, 
or a little soup, he refused. He refused everything. 

"Dost thou wish anything, Francois?" 

"No, I wish nothing!" 

"We must draw him out of this," the doctor said. "This 
torpor frightens me! — you are the father and the mother, 
you know your child well — Seek for something to re- 
animate this little body, recall to earth this spirit which 
runs after the clouds !" 

Then he went away. 

"Seek!" 

Yes, without doubt they knew him well, their Francois, 
these worthy people! They knew how it amused him, the 
little one, to plunder the hedges on Sunday and to come back 
to Paris on his father's shoulders laden with hawthorne — 
Jacques Legrand had bought some images, some gilded sol- 
diers, and some Chinese shadows for Francois ; he cut them 
out, put them on the child's bed and made them dance before 
the bewildered eyes of the little one, and with a desire to 
weep himself he tried to make him laugh. 

"Dost thou see, Francois, it is the broken bridge ! — And 
that is a general ! — Thou rememberest we saw one, a 
general, once, in the Bois de Boulogne? 2 — If thou 
takest thy medicine well I will buy thee a real one with a 

2. A well-known public park in Paris. 



BOUM-BOUM 303 

cloth tunic and gold epaulets — Dost thou wish for him, 
the general, say?" 

"No," replied the child, with the dry voice which fever 
gives. 

"Dost thou wish a pistol, some marbles — a cross-bow?" 

"No," repeated the little voice, clearly and almost cruelly. 

And to all that they said to him, to all the jumping- 
jacks, to all the balloons that they promised him, the little 
voice — while the parents looked at each other in despair — 
responded: 

-No."— "No."— "No!" 

"But what dost thou wish, my Francois?" asked the 
mother. "Let us see, there is certainly something thou 
wouldst like to have — Tell it, tell it to me! to me! — thy 
mother !" And she laid her cheek on the pillow of the sick 
boy and whispered this softly in his ear as if it were a 
secret. Then the child, with an odd accent, straightening 
himself up in his bed and stretching out his hand eagerly 
toward some invisible thing, replied suddenly in an ardent 
tone, at the same time supplicating and imperative : 

"I want Boum-Boum!" 

Bourn- Bourn. 

Poor Madeleine threw a frightened look toward her hus- 
hand. What did the little one say? Was it the delirium, 
the frightful delirium, which had come back again? 

Boum-Boum ! 

She did not know what that meant, and she was afraid 
of these singular words which the child repeated with a 
sickly persistence, as if, not having dared until now to for- 
mulate his dream, he grasped the present time with invinc- 
ible obstinacy: 

"Yes, Boum-Boum ! Boum-Boum! I want Boum-Boum !" 

The mother had seized Jacques's hand and spoke very 
low, as if demented. 



304 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"What does that mean, Jacques ? He is lost !" 

But the father had on his rough, workingman's face a 
smile almost happy, but astonished too, the smile of a con- 
demned man who foresees a possibility of liberty. 

Boum-Boum ! He remembered well the morning of Easter 
Monday when he had taken Francois to the circus. He had 
still in his ears the child's outburst of joy, the happy laugh 
of the amused boy, when the clown, the beautiful clown, 
all spangled with gold and with a great gilded butterfly 
sparkling, many-colored, on the back of his black costume, 
skipped across the track, gave the trip to a rider or held 
himself motionless and stiff on the sand, his head down 
and his feet in the air. Or, again, he tossed up to the chan- 
delier some soft, felt hats which he caught adroitly on his 
head, where they formed, one by one, a pyramid; and at 
each jest, like a refrain brightening up his intelligent and 
droll face, he uttered the same cry, repeated the same word, 
accompanied now and then by a burst from the orchestra: 
Boum-Boum ! 

Boum-Boum! and each time that it rang out, Boum- 
Boum, the audience burst into hurrahs and the little one 
joined in with his hearty little laugh. Boum-Boum! It 
was this Boum-Boum, it was the clown of the circus, it was 
this favorite of a large part of the city, that little Francois 
wished to see and to have and whom he could not have and 
could not see since he was lying here without strength in 
his white bed. 

In the evening Jacques Legrand brought the child a 
jointed clown, all stitched with spangles, which he had 
bought in a passageway and which was very expensive. 
It was the price of four of his working days ! But he would 
have given twenty, thirty — he would have given the price 
of a year's labor to bring back a smile to the pale lips of 
the sick child. 



BOUM-BOUM 305 

The child looked at the plaything a moment as it glistened 
on the white cover of the bed, then said, sadly : 

"It is not Boum-Boum! — I want to see Boum-Boum! ,, 

Ah! if Jacques could have wrapped him up in his blan- 
kets, could have carried him to the circus, could have shown 
him the clown dancing under the lighted chandelier, and 
have said to him, Look! He did better, Jacques, he went 
to the circus, demanded the address of the clown, and 
timidly, his legs shaking with fear, he climbed, one by one, 
the steps which led to the apartment of the artist, at Mont- 
martre. 3 It was very bold, this that Jacques was going to 
do ! But after all the comedians go to sing and recite their 
monologues in drawing-rooms, at the houses of the great 
lords. Perhaps the clown — oh! if he only would— would 
consent to come and say good-day to Francois. No matter ; 
how would they receive him, Jacques Legrand, here at 
Boum-Boum's house? 

He was no longer Boum-Boum! He was Monsieur 
Moreno, and, in the artistic dwelling, the books, the engrav- 
ings, the elegance was like a choice decoration around the 
charming man who received Jacques in his office like that 
of a doctor. 

Jacques looked, but did not recognize the clown, and 
turned and twisted his felt hat between his fingers. The 
other waited. Then the father excused himself. "It was 
astonishing, what he came there to ask, it could not be — 
pardon, excuse — But in short, it was concerning the little 
one — A nice little one, monsieur. And so intelligent! 
Always the first at school, except in arithmetic, which he 
did not understand — A dreamer, this little one, do you 
see ! Yes, a dreamer. And the proof — wait — the proof — " 

Jacques now hesitated, stammered; but he gathered up 
his courage and said briskly : 

3. A section of Paris in which artists and literary men live. 



306 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"The proof is that he wishes to see you, that he thinks 
only of you, and that you are there before him like a star 
which he would like to have, and that he looks — " 

When he had finished, the father was deadly pale, and he 
had great drops on his forehead. He dared not look at the 
clown, who remained with his eyes fixed on the workman. 
And what was he going to say, this Boum-Boum? Was he 
going to dismiss him, take him for a fool and put him out 
the door? 

"You live?" asked Boum-Boum. 

"Oh ! very near ! Street of the Abessess !•" 

"Come I" said the other. "Your boy wants to see Boum- 
Boum? Ah, well, he is going to see Boum-Boum/' 

When the door opened and showed the clown, Jacques 
Legrand cried out joyfully to his son: 

"Francois, be happy, child! See, here he is, Boum- 
Boum I" 

A look of great joy came over the child's face. He raised 
himself on his mother's arm and turned his head toward the 
two men who approached, questioning, for a moment, who 
it was by the side of his father; this gentleman in an over- 
coat, whose good, pleasant face he did not know. When 
they said to him, "It is Boum-Boum !" he slowly fell back 
on the pillow, and remained there, his eyes fixed, his beauti- 
ful large, blue eyes, which looked beyond the walls of the 
little room, and were always seeking the spangles and the 
butterfly of Boum-Boum, like a lover who pursues his 
dream. 

"No," replied the child with a voice which was no longer 
dry, but full of despair, "no, it is not Boum-Boum." 

The clown, standing near the little bed, threw upon the 
child an earnest look, very grave, but of an inexpressible 
sweetness. 



BOUM-BOUM 307 

He shook his head, looked at the anxious father, the 
grief-stricken mother, and said, smiling, "He is right; this 
is not Boum-Boum !" and then he went out. 

"I cannot see him, I will never see Boum-Boum any- 
more !" repeated the child, whose little voice spoke to the 
angels. "Boum-Boum is perhaps there, there, where little 
Francois will soon go." 

And suddenly — it was only a half-hour since the clown 
had disappeared — the door opened quickly, and in his black, 
spangled clothes, his yellow cap on his head, the gilded 
butterfly on his breast and on his back, with a smile as big 
as the mouth of a money-box, and a powdered face, Boum- 
Boum, the true Boum-Boum, the Boum-Boum of the circus, 
the Boum-Boum of the popular neighborhood, the Boum- 
Boum of little Francois — Boum-Boum appeared ! 

Lying on his little white bed, the child clapped his thin 
little hands, laughing, crying, happy, saved, with a joy of 
life in his eyes, and cried "Bravo !" with his seven-year 
gaiety, which all at once kindled up like a match: 

"Boum-Boum ! It is he, it is he, this time ! Here is 
Boum-Boum ! Long live Boum-Boum ! Good-day, Boum- 
Boum." 

And when the doctor came back, he found seated by little 
Francois' bedside, a clown with a pale face, who made the 
little one laugh again and again, and who said to the child 
while he was stirring a piece of sugar into a cup of medicine : 

"Thou knowest, if thou dost not drink, little Francois, 
Boum-Boum will not come back any more." 

So the child drank. 

"Is it not good?" 

"Very good ! — thanks, Boum-Boum !" 

"Doctor," said the clown to the doctor, "do not be jeal- 
ous — It seems to me that my grimaces will do him as much 
good as your prescriptions !" 



308 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

The father and the mother wept, but this time from joy. 

Until little Francois was on his feet again a carriage 
stopped every day before the dwelling of a workman in the 
street of the Abessess, at Montmartre, and a man got out 
with a gay powdered face, enveloped in an overcoat with a 
collar turned back, and underneath it one could see a clown's 
costume. 

"What do I owe you, monsieur ?" said Jacques, at last, to 
*;he master-clown when the child took his first walk, "for now 
I owe you something !" 

The clown stretched out his two soft, herculean hands to 
"he parents. 

"A shake of the hand !" said he. 

Then placing two great kisses on the once more rosy 
cheeks of the child : 

"And" (laughing) "permission to put on my visiting- 
»ard : 

"Boum-Boum 

"Acrobatic Doctor and Physician in ordinary to little 
FrangoisJ" 



LEMAITRE 

(1853-1914) 

Francois Elie Jules Lemaitre was born at Vennecy, 
in the Department of Loiret, central France, April 27, 
1853. After some preliminary schooling at home he went 
to Paris and completed his studies there. He was inter- 
ested in educational work and taught for a number of 
years, holding positions in various schools and colleges. 
In 1882 he received his doctor's degree and two years 
later he abandoned the teaching profession so that he 
might devote his whole attention to literary pursuits. 

Lemaitre had always been interested in literature, as 
befitted a Professor o-f Rhetoric, and early in his career 
began to contribute poems and articles to various journals. 
By 1879 he was already attracting attention as a critic 
through a number of articles in the Revue Bleue, especially 
one on Flaubert, whom he had known well at Havre while 
teaching. A small volume of poems made him known more 
widely, but his real forte seemed to lie in criticism, a field 
for which he was eminently fitted by virtue of his wide 
reading and splendid scholarship. For many years he 
shared high honors as a critic with Brunetiere, Faguet, 
and Doumic, of whom Doumic is now the only survivor. 
Unlike the others, Lemaitre did not limit his interest to 
criticism alone; he made original contributions to poetry, 
the drama, and fiction, with considerable success in each. 

It is, however, as a critic that Lemaitre will be best 
remembered. He kept up a continuous series of critical 
essays on the drama and other literary subjects. Of the 
Impressions de Theatre there are ten volumes, while of 
the second series, entitled Les Contemporains, there are 
seven volumes. 

The story of The Siren, selected for this volume, is taken 

309 



310 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

from the first series of En Marge des Vieux Livres. The 
idea of the stories and sketches in these two volumes is 
unique; each one begins with an episode or character from 
some well known old story and then diverges as the imagi- 
nation of the author dictates. The stories are very readable 
because of Lemaitre's direct style, and because of the novelty 
of the underlying idea. 



THE SIREN 1 

By JULES LEMAITRE 

As they neared the Islet of the Sirens 2 the wind calmed 
down and the waves were hushed. The sailors furled the 
sails. Ulysses/ remembering the warning counsel of Circe/ 
kneaded a lump of wax in his sturdy hands and stopped the 
ears of his companions with it. They in turn tied him to the 
mast and then struck the foaming sea with their oars. 

From the depths of their grotto the Sirens had observed 
the vessel. When it came within range of their voices they 
came down to the shore and began to sing: 

"Come hither, beloved wanderers, come ! No seafarer has 
ever passed our island without listening to our voice; then 
they depart filled with joy, having learned many things; 
for we know all that happens on the bountiful earth/' 

Rising erect out of the still water, their bodies gleaming 
and moist, they made appealing gestures with their beautiful 
arms. And an irresistible witchery lay in their voices, soft 
as a milky sea, pervasive as the odor of sea-weed, tender, and 
a little wistful as though it were the voice of longing. 

Ulysses writhed within his bands, but his companions, 
forewarned, only bound them tighter around his arms and 
thighs. 

1. Translated by H. C. Schweikert. 

2. See Homer's Odyssey, Book XII, or Gayley's Classic Myths. 



THE SIREN 311 

However, one of the sailors, Euphorion by name, declared 
that even at the price of his life it was worth while to listen 
to songs that could shake the feelings of a man so profound 
in wisdom as the crafty Ulysses. 

He removed the wax from his ears, and hearkened. 

What he heard was such that he leaned over the railing 
of the ship, further and further, until after a few seconds he 
dropped into the salt waves. 

The sailors hesitated about abandoning their companion, 
but Ulysses, with a glance of the eye, ordered them to pass 
on beyond the headland. 

With all the strength of his longing, Euphorion swam to- 
ward the voices. 

The sea, glistening in the sun, became darker as it receded 
into the blue grotto. At the entrance the Sirens, all seven 
of them, raised themselves upright. Down to the waist they 
were like young women; they had eyes of grayish blue, 
golden hair, sharp teeth in mouths that were rather large, 
and their faces were like those of children. Their hips were 
enclosed in a sheath of scales, and the swimmer noticed the 
glittering brilliance of their tails moving level with the 
water's surface. 

When he came quite close to them the Sirens stopped 
singing; then, with a loud cry, they seized him, dragged him 
back to the rear of the grotto, placed him upon a jutting 
rock strewn with bones, and prepared to attack him. For 
these beautiful creatures were accustomed to tear to pieces 
the bodies of the shipwrecked sailors and to suck their blood 
with puckered mouths. 

It chanced that one of the Sirens seemed to Euphorion 
more beautiful than the others, with a countenance less im- 
passive. 

Turning to her, he said : 

"I shall die happy, having heard the song of the daughters 



312 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

of the sea. But I should be happier still if death should 
come to me at your hands alone." 

The Siren looked at him in surprise. It was the first time 
she had ever seen a wish or a thought illuminate the face of 
a man ; for usually the features and eyes of the shipwrecked 
mariners showed nothing but terror; or indeed, more often, 
utterly exhausted by their exertions, they displayed no 
emotion at all. 

She made a sign to her sisters to keep away, saying: 

"The stranger belongs to me." 

The rest of the Sirens withdrew, either because she who 
spoke in this manner had some authority over her com- 
panions, or because some tacit agreement among them deter- 
mined the allotment of these derelicts of the sea. 

Alone with the crafty Greek, she asked : 

"What is your name ?" 

And when she had learned it she at once replied : 

"Euphorion, I love you. And, although immortal, that is 
the first time I have ever spoken that word or felt that which 
it signifies." 

"And what is your name?" asked the Greek. 

"Leucosia." 

The other Sirens, faithful to the pact agreed upon, let 
Euphorion and Leucosia live together by themselves as they 
liked. 

Back of the grotto there was a secluded meadow in which 
a fountain gently played. Euphorion drank its water and 
lived on shell-fish. 

Leucosia never left him. As a pastime they enjoyed being 
rocked on the crest of a wave, to be lifted up and carried 
along amid its watery caresses. At times the Siren would 
let herself drop from the summit of a high rock, her finny tail 
straight out like an arrow; he would catch her in his arms 
and together they would dive deep into the salty pool. At 



THE SIREN 313 

other times, in the basins of the coves, they reveled in the 
sunshine among the foaming eddies. Or again, they gam- 
boled with the dolphins, playing merry pranks upon them. 

At night, when the other Sirens went to sleep on the grass, 
their unwieldy tails stretching out side by side, Euphorion 
and Leucosia retired to a remote nook in the meadow, and 
the wanderer fell asleep in the cold arms of this quaint 
goddess of the sea. 

They conversed but little. Leucosia was familiar with' 
words which pertained to things necessary to nymph life on 
the reefs of the Mediterranean. She knew how to name the 
sky, the sea, the sun, the moon, the stars, the rocks, the fish, 
and the various parts of the body. She also knew how to 
say: "I see; I hear; I feel; I love; I desire something; I 
hope; I want." But that was practically all the vocabulary 
of this young immortal. 

One day Euphorion said to her : 

"When from the swift ship I heard the voices of the 
Sirens you boasted that you knew many things not known to 
man. Tell me about them now, Leucosia." 

But she gave him to understand that they spoke untruths, 
only to excite the curiosity of travelers. 

And, in truth, the words they chanted, which he now heard 
every evening, did not evidence an intelligent understanding 
of the spirit of things, but only such exceeding emotion as 
arises from rejoicing at the coming of the dawn, the glory 
of the setting sun, the boundlessness and beauty of the sea ; 
or, simply the joy of possessing an agile body incapable of 
fatigue. Sometimes the artful singers seemed to suggest 
the pain of a longing, purposely left vague, but which pre- 
cisely defined the gloom in the soul of Euphorion, burdened 
with memories of his life as a human being. 

Leucosia noticed the melancholy of her companion and 
soothed him with her cool kisses. On the sea and in the 



314 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

hollow grotto she was stronger than he, and more supple, and 
helped him along and watched over him every moment. But 
on the beach and in the fragrant meadow, obliged to walk 
on her hands and drag her cumbersome tail along, she 
wondered at her comrade because of his feet which enabled 
him to walk erect, and envied him. In such moments she 
felt that his experiences had been more varied than hers, 
that his mind must be filled with pictures and ideas which 
she could not even surmise. 

He resolved to teach her, attempting to give her some idea 
how human beings lived on the continent and the larger 
islands. But he soon saw that she did not understand him 
because the words he used had no relation to any obj ect upon 
which she could put her eyes. 

Then he began to grow a trifle weary. Leucosia no longer 
had the charm of novelty. There was too great a difference 
between them because of the primitiveness of her mind. 
What had at first fascinated him now made him tired. He 
felt a sort of resentment towards Leucosia on account of 
her ignorance — and because of her cold, briny skin. 

He remembered his life as it used to be, his homesickness 
becoming constantly more acute. At night, in the quiet 
meadow, while the strange goddess with the scaly body lay 
asleep near him he once again saw the fields, the woods, 
the streams, the oxen at their work, the dwelling-places of 
human beings, the booths of the merchants, the temples on 
the hills, the ships in port, and the taverns where one drinks 
the sparkling wine; the little dancing-girls, dark-eyed, be- 
spangled, who stick red flowers in their hair, and whose 
hands are warm and who have pretty feet. 

About this time a vessel which happened along was lured 
by the song of the Sirens and wrecked on a nearby reef. 
Euphorion was horrified when he saw those graceful maidens 
set their piercing teeth into the bodies of the seamen, and 



THE SIREN 315 

swell up with the blood which they sucked from them. Leu- 
cosia showed no desire either to sing with her sisters or to 
share in their orgy. Euphorion was pleased; but on ques- 
tioning her he learned that she had refrained solely not to 
displease him, and that — although love, common to nearly 
all animals, could touch her — pity, peculiar to man alone, 
had remained a stranger to her. 

The Sirens could breathe with equal ease under the water 
and in the air. With the help of his companion, Euphorion 
had learned how to hold his breath under water longer than 
a diver. Often he liked to swim with Leucosia across the 
coral groves and the gardens of undersea plants, uncertain 
whether the shapes imperceptibly changing their colors in 
the glass-like brightness of the sea were precious stones, 
flowers, or living creatures. 

On one of these excursions he discovered, in a dell at the 
bottom of the sea, the remains of a vessel, and, amid the 
wreckage, some vases, large urns, household articles, neck- 
laces, jewels, girdles, silver mirrors, small painted tablets 
showing various scenes in the life of human beings — and a 
small chest filled with gold. 

With the assistance of Leucosia he brought these objects 
to shore. He placed a necklace around her throat, put brace- 
lets on her arms, a belt about her waist, and handed her a 
looking-glass. She was struck by her own beauty, and 
smiled. Then he explained the use of the various other 
articles as well as the meaning of the pictures on the colored 
tablets. 

Now, Leucosia seemed to form some idea of a life other 
than her own. She said, a little wistfully: 

"I should like to see all that; but I am only a nymph of 
the sea, and the sea is all that I shall ever understand/' 

An idea suggested itself to Euphorion. By further excit- 
ing her curiosity about the earth, he might make it a means 



316 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

of escape from the island of the Sirens. So, he was planning 
a separation from his companion at the very moment when 
she was becoming more intelligent and beginning to under- 
stand him. 

He continually told her entrancing tales of life among 
men. 

"If you care to come with me/' he said one day, "we can 
swim across the sea until we come to a city called Athens, 
scarcely three days' journey from here." 

"But I cannot walk very far on land." 

"I will help you/' replied Euphorion; "and when we've 
arrived in the city, a splendid chariot, like those you saw 
in the pictures, will carry you wheresoever you wish to go. 
And we will live happily together with the gold in that 
chest." 

But he did not say all that was in his mind. 

A three days' journey was mere play for the Siren. At 
times they swam along side by side, while again, Euphorion 
was helped by her, so they reached the shore of the main- 
land without his being exhausted by fatigue. 

They landed at an unfrequented spot, but in the distance 
saw signs of a city, approached by a long road, which was 
rugged and covered with dust. 

The Siren crawled along for a while on her hands, but she 
was bruised by the stones and weakened by the scorching 
rays of the sun. 

Euphorion was already far in advance of her. She called 
to him : 

"The land upon which men live is hard and rough. In 
the sea I helped to carry you ; now, in turn, should you not 
help me?" 

He did not have the heart to refuse. Retracing his steps, 
he stooped down and offered to assist her. The Siren put 
her arms around his neck; he rose, and as he walked along 



THE SIREN 317 

the road the end of her scale-covered tail dragged in the dust. 

Perspiring under his burden, Euphorion muttered words 
of annoyance. He began to ask himself what he was to do 
with this fin-tailed woman, now that they were in the country 
of men. 

Suddenly he roughly unclasped from his neck the arms 
of Leucosia, let her fall at full length to the ground, and ran 
away with rapid strides. 

"Euphorion! Euphorion !" cried the Siren, plaintively. 

That cry was so touching that he stopped. 

"Be patient/' he said. "I am going to the city, and will 
return with a chariot to fetch you." 

"No, no," she moaned. "You will not return. I know it. 
You no longer love me because I am not like other women. 
To me you owe your life, and it is through you that I am 
doomed to lose mine, for surely the gods have deprived me of 
immortality as punishment for having fallen in love with a 
human being." 

She wrung her hands, and for the first time tears flowed 
from her pale eyes. Her tail, whose beautiful shiny colors 
were soiled by the dust, beat feebly on the hard road. 

"Euphorion ! Euphorion ! Have pity on me !" she re- 
sumed. 

' 'Pity' ?" he exclaimed. "You have never before spoken 
that word !" 

"That is because I have never before suffered," she re- 
plied. "Listen to me, dear friend and comrade. I clearly 
see that I shall always be an embarrassment to you. And 
as for me, I know I would be uneasy among women who 
have feet. Alas ! that which I longed for, now terrifies me. 
But I am too weak to regain the sea. Carry me to the 
shore, and I'll return alone to my cruel sisters/' 

' 'Cruel' ?" said Euphorion. "Still another word which 
vou have never before used !" 



318 FRENCH SHORT STORIES 

"Alas !" she answered, "it is you who have revealed its 
meaning to me." 

Euphorion, without saying anything, lifted her into his 
arms, while her long flowing hair entwined itself about his 
knees. She smiled at him amid her tears, and then she 
sighed so tenderly that he felt his resolution weakening. 

He placed Leucosia gently on the beach, near the water's 
edge. 

"Adieu, dear friend," she said. 

"Ah," he sobbed, "if only you were like other women." 

"But why hope ! I am not. Besides, I have no need of 
limbs in the waters of the sea. I shall try to forget — forget, 
and become once more like my sisters. For I shall be exceed- 
ingly unhappy if I remember you and all the things you have 
taught me. But then, can I forget? — Alas, I fear I cannot, 
and I shall be a poor forsaken nymph, no longer even a 
Siren." 

Euphorion wept: 

"Become what you will," said he. "I know that I love 
you, and I do not want you to go away without me. Let 
happen whatsoever may please the gods — you and I are go- 
ing away together!" 

Euphorion would really have committed that folly had it 
not been for Thetis, kindhearted goddess of the sea, who 
appeared before the two lovers. 

"I have long been interested in you," she said, "and I wish 
you well. You, Leucosia, have been kind to one who but 
lately fought at the side of my son Achilles; while you, 
Euphorion, have shown compassion to one of my daughters 
of the sea at the very moment when you were about to realize 
your dearest hope — that of once more seeing your native 
land ; and finally, because you have elevated each other, the 
one through greater knowledge, the other by increased forti- 
tude. 



THE SIREN 319 

"There are several ways in which I can reward you. Be- 
fore letting you depart alone, Leucosia, I can remove from 
your memory all that you have experienced, so that from 
now on it will never cause you any suffering. Or, Euphorion, 
I can give you the fins and the form of a dolphin, preserving 
your human mind with all its associations, and you can live 
pleasantly with Leucosia in the boundless sea. But it is my 
wish to make you happy in the manner you yourselves are 
thinking of this minute. Leucosia, dear daughter of the 
sea, would you give up your immortality to live with him? ,, 

"Yes," answered the Siren. "For to be immortal, and 
happy, one must not think of anything/' 

"Thank you !" said Thetis. 

"Oh!" Leucosia exclaimed, "I was not thinking of you 
when I said that. I had in mind only an insignificant little 
goddess like myself." 

"You need make no excuses, my child. Then, do I under- 
stand that you are willing to become mortal?" 

"With all my heart!" 

"Become a woman then, and follow him whom you love." 

Thetis touched the Siren lightly with her trident; and the 
transformation took place forthwith. 

"My child," added the kindly goddess, "go now and ask 
for a fitting garment from the priestess of the little temple 
which you see, a hundred paces from here, on the hill. . . . 
And proceed together toward the city." 

Euphorion and Leucosia beamed with joy. But Thetis, on 
leaving them, smiled somewhat doubtfully; for after all, 
could she be absolutely certain that she had made them 
happy ? 



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